


The Iron King

by lasirene



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Major Original Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Original setting, Past Rape/Non-con, Secrets, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Violence, every character has at least one secret i swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 22
Words: 58,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lasirene/pseuds/lasirene
Summary: [X-Men Fantasy AU]The land of the Iron King is a place of violence.  It was before him, and surely shall be after.The latest war has been over for six years.  The bloodshed earned the kingdom of Genosha peace – or so it seemed from the outside.  Inside, matters are far more complicated.  The Iron King is aptly named for his harsh rule.  Any dissent is crushed with haste; it is the only way to keep the throne.  The more blood he sheds, the more the people grow to hate him, a vicious cycle of uprisings and violence to quell them.The violence is nothing new to Erika.  Now a young woman, Erika hopes desperately that perhaps now that the war has been over long enough, peace will finally prevail.  She believes that the king can be good, if given the chance.  And the quiet prevailing in the kingdom seems to hint that it might be so.But her quiet and ordered life swiftly tumbles into chaos.  Strangers from foreign lands, a troubadour contest, the first whispers of trouble; forces tangle around her, drawing her ever deeper into the eye of a swiftly coming storm.  Will blood be spilled again, or can the violence be stopped before it truly begins?And is there any hope of redemption for the Iron King?





	1. The Forest's Glen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheyCalledHerCarrie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyCalledHerCarrie/gifts), [LadyMoonshadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMoonshadow/gifts).



> While I of course don't own Marvel or any of their characters, I did come up with the places in this story. Also, the character of Erika is entirely of my creation, as are some other characters that appear in this story; the character of Vendetta however belongs to a friend of mine (TheyCalledHerCarrie) and I am using her with permission.

            The note rang crystal clear in the air, vibrating among the glowing chandelier in all its candles and crystals.  The teeming sea of dancers came to a halt, fine clothes swirling against the floor, skirts pooling as the ladies bowed.  The last swell of music echoed along with her voice, and both eased to silence as one.  The songstress smiled to herself as her fingers stilled over the strings of her lute; another performance well done, the royal guests adoring every liquid note that poured from her.  Unparalleled talent, almost entirely natural; the king was lucky–

            The raucous cheers for an encore shattered the illusionary dream, drunk voices calling out in revelry.  Erika’s eyes jumped open, lips parted as she caught back the breath startled from her lungs.  She put on a quick smile, shaking her head in protestation of the eager pleas.  Clutching the elderly instrument to her chest, she hurried off the low stage that dominated the far end of the tavern.

            “Best voice in all of Einsemar!”  “No, the best in the kingdom!”  “She could make a fortune somewhere other than this old tavern.”

            The words elated the young woman as she ducked through the crowds, even as they bogged her down.  Perhaps they were right and she could make a fortune outside of the tavern, a wandering minstrel who would travel with her own troupe of fellow performers.  They could sing, dance, perform plays and sleights of hand for the amusement of audiences across the many kingdoms.

            But what would her parents do?  She cast a glance to the man and woman who were working together, one at the casks of wine and ale, the other at the pot over the fire.  The tavern had been in the family for generations.  The family name, Deforest, was even alluded to in the tavern’s name:  The Forest’s Glen.  A silly name, considering that they were separated from the forest by a respectable wall, but it had lasting power.  Everyone in the town of Einsemar – which was quite a large town itself – knew of the tavern and hailed it for its fine wines.  Erika’s father, Charles, had told her that the recipes came from Franette, the original home of her ancestors.  That kingdom was far, far away, across the sea even.  The Deforest family had fled long ago, for reasons forgotten by the family long since.

            Erika was the only child.  The tavern would likely not go to her, and rather be exchanged to her uncle Christophe, and then to his son, and to the son he would surely soon have.  But Erika had little doubt her uncle would wish her to stay, to sing.  The patrons would miss her voice.

            Having finally freed herself from the congratulatory crowd, Erika hurried up the stairs to the upper level of the tavern.  The second floor was where her family slept, and kept their private possessions.  The space was the same size as the tavern below, sectioned off into semi-private rooms.  The largest of these was where the family spent their time when not working the tavern below, and it was there that the chest where the two heirloom instruments were kept.  The lute was not Erika’s favorite, but it performed better with the songs their patrons expected.  She much preferred the harp, with its delicacy and elegance, the sweetness of its notes.

            She opened the chest, smiling at the instrument that rarely left its storage.  She set the lute inside carefully and wrapped both instruments snug into the cloth kept with them.  She closed the trunk, stood, and crossed the room to stand before the small, stained looking glass that hung on the wall.

            Her dark hair had started to break free of its braid, but it was an easy fix.  In moments, her nimble fingers had undone and braided the black curls back into smooth order.  Her pale face was already flushed from performing, and a low sparkle burned in her blue eyes.  Her fantasy from her performance still hung in her mind, blazing with the wildness of the impossible.

            Erika did not want to be spend the rest of her unmarried life singing for drunkards in a tavern.  Nor did she particularly wish to be a minstrel, dressed in gaudy clothes cut to surely entice her audience to linger a bit longer.  The tavern was claustrophobic in its perpetual sameness; wandering minstrels’ reputations left much to be desired.  What Erika wished for, desperately, was the esteemed title of troubadour, to be hired on in the palace to recite long, beautiful poems of love and chivalry, tell epic tales of long gone heroes, sing songs for the royal court and guests.  What finer life could a performer aspire to?

            But, impossible.  She was but a lowly citizen of Genosha, barely ranking above a serf in the social hierarchy.  She was little more than dirt to the nobility.  Her dreams were impossible.

            Shaking off her thoughts, Erika turned and hurried back to the stairs.  She hitched up the skirt of her dress before racing down the steps.  She hurried behind the counter that separated the casks and fireplace from the patrons.  Before she could grab a pitcher of ale and take it around, her mother caught her in a quick embrace.

            “You were beautiful tonight!” Marie declared, holding her daughter close.  “You sing better and better every night it seems!”

            “Thank you,” Erika replied, her voice shrunken in her modesty.  “But really, I do nothing different.”

            “Except daydream,” her father said as he filled a few drinks and passed them back over the counter.  “I know that look about you; the artist’s look.”

            “Is that not what we are?” Erika replied with a smile, turning as he mother released her.  “You’re the greatest artist I’ve ever seen!”

            “And you inherited the talents and cloud-filled head that comes with it,” he replied, a forlorn note creeping into his voice.  “It will get you nowhere in such a world as this, little songbird.”

            “Such idle things are for dreamers and nobility.  I know.”  Erika gave out a brisk sigh as she turned away from both parents and picked up a pitcher.

            Her mother cut the conversation off briskly, taking up a bowl of the stew she had been cooking and passing it to Erika.  “Take that to the man seated in the corner back there,” she urged, nodding towards the lone figure that was tucked away from everyone else.  There was a warning look in her mother’s eye; clearly she thought the man a bit odd, and Erika had to agree.  His head was bowed, hiding his face in shadow.

            Erika moved ahead anyway, brushing past the visitors of the tavern, careful not to spill the bowl.  After a few near accidents, she skipped out at the table.  With a sigh of relief, she moved around to the side the man occupied.  He wore a long cloak that pooled on the floor; it twisted enough for her to note the purple silk lining.  At his throat, a fleur-de-lis gleamed in gold, pinning the cloak to his clothing.  She recognized it as the royal crest of the deep southern kingdom Orleen, and while she knew the color purple had significance, she couldn’t place it.

            Pushing her thoughts aside, she topped off his drink and set the bowl down before him.  She stepped back a little, smiling politely.  “Is there anything else I could get for you?”

            “No,” the man replied, his voice coming out in the typical southern style:  slow, honey sweet drawl.  “I’m jus’ fine, _merci_ , _chere_.”  He inclined his head just enough for Erika to see his mouth curve in a brief smile; his eyes stayed hidden under the long fall of his hair.

            As much as Erika wanted to linger and investigate the stranger further, she knew her parents would miss the extra hands.  It was with reluctance that she moved away, cutting a different path to fill any requested drinks before returning to her parents to continue on with fresh ale.

            It was well over an hour later when she noticed that the strange southerner had left.


	2. The Woman Named Vendetta

            Erika was a curious girl by nature.  It was a fault – a dangerous one, sometimes.  Genosha was not a good place to be too curious about some things these years.  Men had disappeared under the Iron King’s fist for lesser things, after all.  But when a bit of gossip she overheard from the tavern’s patrons caught the young girl’s ear, she had a source that could often give her answers.

            Her name, in its Christian sense, was Bronwyn St. Vincent.  But she never was called that by anyone.  The woman preferred the title of Vendetta.

            Why Vendetta, of all names, was as much a mystery to Erika as any other of the rare number that knew the woman on a semi-personal level.  Erika had never met anyone else who could boast V’s acquaintance, but she knew there had to be a few others.

            Vendetta was a strange woman.  She hailed from Britannia; that much was clear by the thick accent that tangled in her voice.  Beyond that, however, she was a shroud of mystery.  The woman was not like any other woman Erika knew.  She was only a year Erika’s superior, though most would have guessed a greater range between the two peers.  As fiery as her hair, she was unmarried and lived in a small building that had once been a tailor’s shop and home; it was rundown, but had been cheap enough that Vendetta’s purse could buy it.  She made her money by dancing and singing for the entertainment of market shoppers – and by charging a pretty penny for secrets.  Erika had won her skills of eavesdropping and extraction of information for the more priceless payment of friendship.

            The women had met in a curious fashion; reminiscing on the occasion always made Erika smile in a toxic mixture of embarrassment and humor.  It had only been a little over two years back; Erika had been flirting guilelessly with a traveler who had been passing through.  It had only been a return of the affections he had been showing her, and she had doubted she intended any of it to be serious.  It had been wonderful to be noticed, to be appreciated.

            And then Vendetta had sat down at the man’s table, grinned a crooked grin, and proceeded to tell Erika everything she knew about him.  How he had already bedded five women in varying parts of the city in the two weeks he had been in Einsemar, mostly; it was the fact that had made Erika proceed to ignore him.  She had given the woman, a stranger then, a free drink as a show of her gratitude.  Vendetta must have liked the ale; she started coming every few nights, always talking to Erika as if she were a human being rather than just a beneficial creature bringing her what she wanted.  The friendship had built from there without hesitation.

            Erika wanted to request a favor from her dear friend.

            Knowing just where to find her, Erika swept up the basket and the scrawled list her father had written up, and went out into the city streets.  She knew the path to the central market by heart; when she had been a little girl, she had accompanied her mother, and when she was old enough to go alone, she had gone.  It was, according to her parents, one of the most helpful things she had done, as it gave them both time to prepare for the new day.

            The cool morning of early spring had forced the young woman to put on her cloak.  The breeze that licked through the buildings made her huddle into the dark material; it fluttered about her, as did her unbound hair; the raven curls would be a frizzed, limp mess by the evening, and would surely end up in a braid.

            The main market was located in the heart of Einsemar.  It was a lengthy walk from The Forest’s Glen, and a trip to market took most of the day.  Only two or three trips were made a week, usually in close succession, to stock up on needed supplies.  Erika was more than willing to go; it gave her time to socialize, to daydream . . . to look at all the handsome young men and wonder who would marry her someday.

            The thought of marriage was terrifying.  Erika did not want to surrender her free will to a man, no matter if it were for love or just for sustenance.  Vendetta was unmarried, and she got by just fine.  Erika wanted the same luxury, to be the master of her own course in life.  She knew better than to hope for it, just as she knew better than to hope to be a troubadour for a lord or the king himself.  Impossible things, but she dreamed anyway.  Somedays dreams were the only thing that got a girl by.

            The thoughts hung around her head like a heavy, black cloud, and it was with effort that she banished them.  Now was not the time for such distractions.

            The people milling in the streets had thickened, and Erika could hear the chatter of people bargaining over goods to purchase.  The markets of Einsemar were a lively place on any given day.  The bustle and rush could be stressful, but it was also exciting.  Some people came from the far ends of the kingdom – some even from beyond the borders – to sell in the main square of the city.  It was impossible to say what exotic goods could appear on any given day.  Erika had seen some of everything, it seemed; wondrous creatures, exotic spices, elegant fabrics, breathtaking jewels and a million other trivial follies to tempt the eyes and loosen the purse strings.  Useless things, but Erika looked anyway.

            Finally worming her way through the crowds, Erika broke into the market space.  Over the constant chattering, she could hear the bubbling of the fountain located slightly off the center of the market.  She could not quite see it, but such was unnecessary; she had sat on its lip many times, chatting with Vendetta.  It was a simple yet elegant structure of three tiers; the top spilled water up, which then fell into the first basin, which overfilled and fell to the second, then to the third, and finally to the pool at the bottom.  Erika had always been mystified by it as a girl, and still was in part.

            As much as Erika wanted to hunt down her friend immediately, she knew that work had to be conducted first.  If she failed to find the needed goods here, now, she would have to go to one of the smaller markets and try there.  Erika didn’t have the desire to go on an all day venture.  She gave her father’s rudimentary writing a brief glance before striking off to the more familiar corner of the market.

            The square itself was almost entirely open; except for the fountain, nothing else permanently occupied the open central space.  Various shops and open areas for people to set up their wagons and carts bordered the entire space; there were far too many of these people to count, and even more shops spilled down the streets that broke from the square like the ropes of a spider’s web.  The local farmers all congregated around the southwest corner of the market, and it was from them that Erika bought the most supplies.

            She felt a smile come to her as she saw one of the farmers she favored the most.  He was an aging man; Bentley was short and a bit heavyset, with graying hair and dark eyes that glimmered bright.  When Erika had been little (and he a skinnier and younger man), she had been allowed to pet the noses of Bentley’s donkeys.  Perhaps it was that memory that had drawn her to purchase from him her first time alone; the reliably excellent produce had her coming back regularly.

            Bentley noticed the young woman around the same time and raised his hand in a cheery wave.  “Hail, fellow!  Well met!”

            “Well met, indeed!” Erika replied as she ducked through the last trail of a crowd.  “I was hoping to find you here today.”

            “Then you’re in luck it would seem!  What do you need today?”

            Erika rattled off the contents and quantities of her list; it was a wide array of vegetables, from cabbages, to carrots, to potatoes and plenty others in between.  While Bentley was filling her basket with what she needed, Erika scratched behind the ears of the two donkeys that pulled his cart.

            After an exchange of currency and small talk, Erika finally drifted to the true heart of the square.  In the central, open space, some people set up shop for the day; few carried your typical sort of goods, though.  These were minstrels, traveling performers, dancers, all congregated near the fountain to woo the shoppers into parting from a coin or two.  Erika had been enamored with such a seemingly romantic living when she had been young, but naivete was not something a grown woman could afford.  It was a hard and thankless life they lived, even if they enjoyed performing.  Happiness could only compensate so much for creature comforts.

            Milling among the socializing city folk and traveling performers – pickpockets, too; she had to be quite careful of her purchases and purse in this crowded area – was no easy feat with a large basket on her arm.  Erika was a master at manipulating her way through a never still crowd.  Was it not her nightly task?

            Vendetta spent a fair amount of her daytime hours in the market square, usually the main one.  She sometimes wore a light dress, fire-red hair flying as she danced like one gone mad.  If she was not dancing, she would likely be dressed in breeches and a shirt, talking with people or sitting alone with a scowl of thought.  Always a mystery, V; Erika doubted she would ever know her entirely, but that was of little consequence.

            A flash of sunlight on metal caused Erika to turn her head.  A wheel of daggers, spinning over the head of a small crowd.  Erika smiled to herself, changing her course to join the assemblage.

            It was a thin enough crowd that, by taking position at one end of the rough semi-circle, she could see the object of the group’s interest easily.  It was just the woman she was looking for.

            Vendetta was dressed in her more typical attire of breeches, shirt, and underbust.  Scandalous attire, they called it, and Erika supposed she could understand why.  The breeches were brown leather, dark and supple, fitting tight to her skin.  The shirt she wore slumped off her shoulders in a way that was too casual to be on accident.  The neckline plunged low, revealing the swell of pert breasts.

            She was beautiful, in the way a wildfire was beautiful:  dangerous and wild, uncontrolled, leaving a path of chaos and destruction.

            Daggers spun through her hands, so light and quick that it seemed Vendetta wasn’t even touching them as they rose and fell in a circle.  Erika knew the simple fact of it:  Vendetta didn’t touch them, didn’t have to.  Like a surprising portion of the population in the Ferrous Land, Vendetta had _abilities_.  Hers was the talent of moving things with her thoughts as well as her hands.  She called it _telekinesis_ , a word that sounded bizarre and foreign to Erika.

            Erika herself had her own small repertoire of ability, but it was far less useful than Vendetta’s.  Besides, Erika was scared of what she could do.  She knew, instinctively, that it could hurt people if she wasn’t careful.

            Vendetta caught the five blades she had been juggling with a sudden motion.  The little crowd she had gathered offered a smattering of applause, but nothing else.  Vendetta, unlike most market performers, was unperturbed.  Erika wondered, not for the first time, just how the woman took care of herself.

            Vendetta caught Erika’s eye with the one that wasn’t hidden under a curtain of red hair.  Her head moved faintly, motioning Erika to walk with her.  The younger woman complied, following after her friend as Vendetta turned to go to the fountain.  She put her knives away with utmost care, whistling a little as she walked.

            Vendetta sprawled herself upon the lip of the fountain, legs spread out wide in a fashion that was anything but feminine.  She grinned over at Erika, who took a more delicate perch beside her, basket poised in her lap.

            “Wot’s brought the songbird aftah me?” the Brittanian woman asked in her heavy accent.  “Looking for trouble?”

            Erika smiled at the question.  “You certainly know me.  I saw a strange man last night in the tavern.  I’d never seen him before.”

            Vendetta shrugged, tossing her head to sway her hair just a little out of the way; Erika caught a brief flash of the three scars that were hidden under the curtain of red hair.  “Einsemar’s a big city, luv.”

            “But we have a regular set of people!”

            “A traveling minstrel, then.  It’s happened before.”  Vendetta’s green eyes gave a humored spark.  “I doubt you’ve forgotten tha’ one–”

            “I have not forgotten,” Erika cut in.  She raised her head, though a blush was coloring her cheeks.  “I just thought of it today, in fact; twice now, thanks to you!”

            “You’re welcome,” Vendetta said with a grin more fitting of an imp than a woman.  “Wot was odd bout him, this man you saw?”

            “He had an accent,” she supplied without a beat of hesitation.  “The southern type.  His cloak was lined in purple, and there was a clasp on it, a fleur-de-lis–”

            “You shouldn’t go getting tangled up in that.”  Vendetta’s brisk dismissal cut Erika into immediate silence.  The redhead had gone a touch paler, or so it seemed to the tavern girl.  “Southerners are no good.  All a bunch of thieves and assassins.”

            Erika felt her pulse jumping in her throat, slamming up against her skin – not in fear, but in excitement.  “You really mean that?”

            Vendetta’s visible eye darkened a little, her expression turning solemn and wary.  “Don’ go and get any crazy ideas on me, luv.  That man’s trouble, make no mistake about that.  And if you want me to look for him, try to find out information about him, don’ ask.”

            Erika poked out her lower lip slightly, shoulders slumping.  “Oh, all right . . .”

            Vendetta’s jaw skewed to one side for a moment before she gave a hard sigh.  “Fine,” she muttered.  “I’ll see what I can do.  Don’ expect anything.  He’s probably jus’ passing through.”

            Erika sprang forward as best she could with the basket of produce in her lap.  She threw her free arm around the other woman in a tight but brief hug.  “You’re the best, V!”

            “I know,” Vendetta snorted, returning the embrace before nudging Erika back. “You should get going.  Bet you’ve got a long night ahead and errands to finish running.”

            “When do I not?”  Erika laughed in good nature, though, giving her friend’s arm a last squeeze before she stood up and started away.  She had total faith in her; the woman named Vendetta never let her friends down, after all.


	3. Lace Shadows

            Erika skipped back into the tavern, humming to herself as she set the basket down on the counter.  Her mother looked up from sweeping the floor behind the counter, a smile coming to her features.

            “You’re back earlier than expected,” her mother said.  “Found everything quickly?”

            “The main market was very well stocked today,” Erika replied with a smile of her own.  She rose a hand to the tie of her cloak, but paused before unfastening it.  “Is there anything else I can do?”

            Marie paused, leaning on the broom for a moment as she thought.  “We are a little short on kindling for the fire.  Could you go out to the woods and get some?”

            “Is that all?”  Erika frowned a little, faint lines drawing between her brows.  “Usually there’s so much more to be done.”

            “You were very busy yesterday morning!”  It was her father’s voice, though rather distant.  Erika glanced over to the door in the short bit of wall that cut the bar counter off.  On the other side of the wall were the stairs that led to the family’s living quarters, but on the side behind the counter, the door led down to the cellar where all the drinks were kept to age.  Her father must have been taking inventory.

            “I suppose so,” Erika replied, raising her voice a bit more to address her father.  She wrinkled up her nose a bit as she transferred her purchases from the basket to her mother.  “If you’re sure . . .”

            “Positive,” Marie replied with a smile.  “Go on; no need to rush about it.”

            Erika smiled before turning and hurrying back outside with her now empty basket slung back into the crook of her arm.  This was a favor she would certainly enjoy running.  The forest just to the west of Einsemar was beautiful, in its dark and mysterious way.  She had never ventured very far under the sprawling canopies of the trees, but the shallow depths she had explored on various errands had left her feeling both chilled and enthralled.  The older she grew, the more enamored she became with the quiet escape of its lace shadows.  Fetching firewood or mushrooms was always one of her favorite favors to do.

            Leaving Einsemar was a far more navigable path, particularly as the day drew to its height.  She wound her way once more to the main road, and took it in the opposite direction.  She kept her gaze fixed forward, humming to herself as she walked.

            By the time she reached the gates, there was no one else in sight.  She nearly skipped out into the open space just beyond the gate; with the guards stationed there, she refrained from such a display.  She gave each guard a polite nod before striking off the beaten road to make her way across the grass towards the looming forest.

            “Be careful out there, girl,” one of the guards said.  His voice was so solemn that Erika turned, eyes a little wide with surprise.  The man inclined his head towards the woods.  “Prettier ladies than you have been lost to those trees.”

            Erika smiled with as much surety as she could.  “I’ll be fine.  I’m not going very far.”

            The two guards exchanged a look before the one that spoke up looked at her again.  “Should you need anything, call out.  We’ll come quick as we can.”  He smiled – in a way that made Erika’s stomach twist uncomfortably.  She gave a quick nod before hurrying forward again.

            As fond of romance and chivalry as she was, the advances of men – however polite or lewd they were – always made Erika nervous.  A man would stifle her, choke her dreams and aspirations out.  Even if she married up in social standing, she would not have what she wanted.  No time to sing, no time to sketch or paint like the wealthy ladies did in their manors and palaces.  Just cooking and cleaning and raising children.

            She blundered under the lacey shadows of the forest, pausing there to swipe at the pressure building in her eyes.  She leaned against a tree, the heel of her palm pressed to her eye, her other arm wrapped tight around herself.

            “It isn’t fair,” she said to herself.  She dropped her hand down to latch onto her other arm.  “It just isn’t fair!”  Erika bit down on her lip with her teeth, eyes shut tight as she pushed down the urge to cry.  Romantic at heart, yet independent, and with a head full of desperate dreams; no wonder no one had come to whisk her off her feet.  They must think her entirely bizarre.

            Crying would get her nowhere, and she knew it.  Erika sucked in a deep breath, chest jerking up.  She swiped at her eyes before pushing herself away from the tree she leaned against.  “It isn’t fair, but it is life,” she muttered before starting forward again.

            Erika strayed through the undergrowth, pushing past ferns and shrubs and various other shorter plants that huddled under the green shade of the ancient forest.  She kept her feet low, scuffling her way through.  Whenever she kicked against a sizeable branch, she bent down and picked it up from the forest floor.  If it passed physical inspection, she tucked it into her basket and continued on her way.  It was not necessarily the most efficient of ways, but it gave her time to think.  Today, she did her best not to mull on her clashing desires, and instead focus on her surroundings.

            The forest was ancient, the trees towering on their thick girths.  The canopy overhead was a rich green, leaves rustling in the slow caress of the breeze.  The lacy shadows danced and swayed, dappling the ground and her body.  She saw no wildlife beyond the songbirds and squirrels that flitted and darted in the branches overhead.

            But there were other animals.  She had heard stories, seen hides, eaten meat.  Deer were abundant, and while they were safe and relatively harmless, there were far more dangerous creatures that called the woods their home.

            Great brown bears, towering taller than an average man on their back feet, with claws at least the length of Erika’s pale fingers and a great maw of piercing teeth in their crushing jaws.  Wild cats with gleaming eyes and piercing talons.  Wolves, traveling in their precious packs.  These lived in the depths of the forest, and Erika stayed far, far away from them.  She had never seen any of these creatures alive, and had no intention of ever meeting any.

            Erika bent down again, picking up another stick.  She examined it, fussed at its length to see if it was rotten.  It held up in her grip, though she held onto it a time longer.  The pale green growths of lichen that decorated the wood were artful in their randomness.  A beauty of nature.

            A shame to burn such a thing, but if she left it here, it would meet some other death.  Rotting to become one with the earth, found by another person to become kindling, chewed on by some animal.  Better to give it such an end by one who appreciated it.

            As Erika tucked it among the rest of the kindling in her basket, she felt a crawling sensation creeping over her skin.  She recognized it, in a way.  It was a similar feeling to that of the drunken men watching her body as she ran about the tavern serving up drinks and food.  While that was a lusting and lecherous glance, this was . . . different.

            Her head felt heavy as she raised it.  She could feel the hammering beat of her heart, echoed in her neck and wrists.  She looked straight ahead for a moment, and saw nothing.  She turned her head into the slight breeze that danced through the trees, and saw nothing.  She turned her head forward, and saw a glimpse of _something_ in her peripheral vision.

            Erika’s head snapped around, eyes wide and wild, body tense and ready to spring to her feet and fly from her place.  But terror froze her in place, planting roots through her feet that she could not extract.

            It was a wolf.  Just one wolf, with brown-gray fur and bright gold eyes.  It was lying on the ground, more on its side.  Its soft ears were pricked towards Erika, head cocked just a touch to one side.  It was a look of curiosity, but it did not give her any ease.

            Erika pressed the palms of her hands to the ground, ignoring the crackle of leaves and branches as she pushed herself up off her knees.  She straightened out, still moving slow.  She clutched at her basket of wood, aiming it between herself and the wolf.  The bulky thing seemed a flimsy shield to her, but its wide shape was all that she had.  She grabbed onto one of the sticks she had collected, ready to hurl it if the wolf lunged, or beat it if it pounced on her.  With great care, she began to back away.

            The wolf raised its head, sniffing at the air for a moment before leveling his gaze back at her.

            The attention was enough to make her blood run ice cold.  Erika turned her back to the creature and took off in a run, back the way she came.  She blundered through the undergrowth, ducking and weaving through the trees.  She did not run long, only until she felt herself to be a safe distance from the wolf.

            Erika leaned against a tree, chest heaving as she caught her breath.  A wolf, a real and living wolf.  She’d never seen one in the woods before.  It was exhilarating, slightly, but for the most part it was frightening.  She had heard that wild animals kept far away from people, and she had not strayed very far from Einsemar.

            Erika stood straight again, pushing herself off the tree to pace forward.  She did not walk long before stopping once more, feeling a fresh spike of fear as she noted the depth of the undergrowth, the thickness of the trees.  She turned about, towards the edge of the woods.  She did not see thinning trees; rather, a sea of them stretched before her.  There was no trace of the city she called home visible through the shadows.

            “No,” she whispered.  She took a few staggering steps forward again before stopping.  She knew she had been wandering in the trees, but she always did.  How had she gotten so deep into the woods?  She had been distracted with distracting herself, yes, but surely she would have noticed if she went so far in?

            Erika gave a slight laugh of sick wonder.  “Obviously, you did not notice,” she muttered under her breath.

            She could have hit herself for such foolishness.  Even worse was the fact that she should have known how to navigate the woods.  Vendetta had told her before, that moss grew on a certain side of trees, other oddities that could have helped.  Her attention had always drifted elsewhere, though, never retaining the information.  And now Erika was lost, hopelessly lost, with no idea what direction she was facing or how far she was from home.

            “I have to try, at least,” she whispered to herself.  It took a moment to gather her courage, but she finally started forth again.  With great care, she walked in what she believed to be the northern direction.  Her breath came in little more than shallow gasps, wracked by anxiety.

            A sound came to her ears, a dull cracking sound.  Erika paused a moment, listening to the silence that followed.  She had imagined it, then, in a hopeless dream of finding help.

            And then it came again.  The crack that could only be wood being split.  And that would mean there was a person out there.

            Erika hitched up her skirt, hurrying towards the sound.  A gust of hope was stirring in her breast.  She could go home soon!  Surely whoever it was would help her?  A naïve thought, she knew it was, but it was the only thing keeping her from shaking in terror.

            She whirled around a tree just in time to catch the flash of light on steel.  The wood split neatly in half, pieces tumbling to either side of the axe.  Strong, tanned hands flexed around the handle and worked the axe out of the groove in the stump beneath, heavy muscles in thick arms flexing under a close fitted shirt of a green that seemed perfectly at one with the woods.  The man was tall, with wide shoulders and bulky muscles.  His face was turned away from Erika as he grabbed another small log and put it in position.  His head turned with the motion, revealing a tan face, straight nose, dark brow furrowed in concentration.  A few strands of dark brown hair were stuck to his forehead.  He wore a thin beard, cut close against his jaw and cheek so that the skin was still somewhat visible.

            Erika must have made a sound, because that dark, closed face turns towards her.  The left eyebrow, the one closest to her, peaked in the middle and lifts higher than the other.  His mouth, thin and shapely and why was she even noticing that, quirked up at the same corner.  His eyes looked green, but the edge of the color is too dark to be green.  Brown, she realizes, green and brown strewn together.

            “Y’gonna keep starin’, or what?”  The man’s voice was as rough as his appearance, though the drawling tone was unfamiliar to her.

            “I’m sorry,” Erika blurted, averting her gaze.  “I just . . . wasn’t sure who I’d find out here.”

            “I could tell that much.”  He swung his axe up on his shoulder, the other hand braced against his hip.  “You’re lost.”

            Erika felt a blush splash onto her cheeks.  “Is it so obvious?”

            “Painfully obvious, if I’m honest.  Wandered too far I take it?”

            Erika nodded, though it was only half the truth.  That stupid wolf was the real reason she was so turned about and lost.  “Is there a chance you could help me?  Maybe?  You can just point me in the right direction to Einsemar, you don’t have to come along–”

            The woodsman laughed, shook his head at her even.  “And leave a pretty thing like you all alone to deal with what may be out here?  I may live out here, but that doesn’t make me a heathen, my lady.”

            The blush on her cheeks and neck darkened a shade.  “I’m no . . . I’m not a lady, sir, I can assure you that,” she stammered out.

            “You’re pretty enough for it,” he replied, swinging the axe off his shoulder.  He took a few steps over to a nearby tree, plucking a small leather casing off a branch.  “What are you doing out here, anyway?  Don’t you know the woods aren’t the safest place to wander about in?”

            “Collecting some kindling,” she muttered, angling her head down as if to duck under the admonishing tone.

            The man gave a grunt of reply, deft and familiar fingers fastening the leather casing around the axe head and tying it tight.  He twirled the axe around in his hand before reaching back and slipping it into a sheath on his back.  “Did you get enough?”

            Erika shrugged, shuffling through the assorted twigs and branches in her basket.  “It doesn’t matter that much.”

            “Well you shouldn’t go to all the trouble of getting lost to go back home without everything you needed.  C’mon, we’ll get some more on the way.”

            “That really won’t be necessary–”

            “Well I insist.”  He looked back at her with a quirked eyebrow.  “Unless you wanna find your way back?”

            Erika remained silent, lips pursed into a thin line.  The woodsman gave her a nod before he turned and started off into the trees.  Erika darted after him; she caught up to him quickly, though kept a polite distance from him.

            “Thank you,” she blurted out, “for your help.”

            “That won’t be necessary.”

            “Well I should at least be grateful!  In all truth, I should give you something in return.”

            The woodsman grinned, an expression she only caught from the corner of her eye.  “Perhaps.  Worry about it later, though.  For now, just keep up.”

***

            Keeping up proved to be a bit of a challenge.  The woodsman moved with a grace and speed that implied intimate familiarity with the woods.  Erika was a stranger, and stumbled after him as quickly as she could.  Even with him stopping and picking up kindling for her, Erika fought to match his pace.  It seemed no time at all before he had led her to the edge of the forest.  The familiar walls of Einsemar reared up across the stretch of open grass, a familiar and heartwarming sight.

            The woodsman stopped at the edge of the forest, keeping himself under the last of the lace shadows.  Erika stepped out into the open light, breathing out a sigh of relief before turning back towards him.

            “Thank you, for helping me.”  She offered a slow, shy smile to him.  “I know you didn’t have to, so I do appreciate it.”

            He gave a slight sound that could have been a short laugh.  “My pleasure, my lady.”  He bent at the waist slightly.

            Erika swayed forward a moment, feeling a brief flutter of hesitation.  Before she could stop herself any longer, she stepped back under the trees.  She caught a brief flash of his eyes, a slight hint of surprise in the green-brown shades as she braced a hand against his chest.  She leaned up on her toes, pressing a shadow of a kiss against his cheek.  The scruff of his beard tickled against her skin where it touched, and the warmth of his body reached out towards her, asking her to fold into him.

            It took more force than she wanted to admit to stumble back.  A blush shot up to her cheeks as she shuffled backwards.

            “I should be going,” Erika said, her tone turning brisk.  “Thank you–”

            “Tell me your name.”

            Her eyes widened as she looked up at him, cheeks still blooming roses, lips barely parted.  For a moment, both stared at the other, one in shadow and one in light.

            “Come find me and perhaps I will tell you,” Erika whispered.  She turned away fast, barely keeping herself from running to the road.

            All the way she felt him watching her, but she never once looked back.


	4. Telekinetic

            “I can’ believe you, Erika!  How could you kiss a man you don’ know?!”

            “I didn’t _kiss_ him!” Erika protested, a blush already flooding her skin.  “I told you, I kissed his _cheek_.”

            “A kiss is a kiss,” Vendetta replied, her words gone sharp.  The redhead seemed to ignore the way Erika rolled her eyes.  “You’re jus’ leading him on.  Or you want him comin’ along aftah you.”

            “Like it would be hard to find me,” Erika shot back, shooting her friend an icy glare as she picked up the platter of drinks from the bar.  “This is public land you may recall.  And I’m not exactly unknown in the city.”

            Vendetta grumbled to herself as Erika whisked away for a round about the tavern.  In mere moments, Erika had delivered fresh drinks and topped off old ones and come back for more.

            “Wot did he look like anyway?” Vendetta asked.  She turned a bit on her stool, slumped in her usual fashion, legs spread out without worry as she wore her usual breeches.

            Erika shrugged, pressing her lips into a close line as her mother put a fresh jug of beer on her platter.  “Handsome enough, I suppose,” she replied, perhaps lying a bit in her own opinion.  “Taller than me.  Broad shouldered, very strong looking.  Rather rugged, too.  Dark hair, tan.”  She paused, and then blurted out all at once, “And he had the most stunning eyes I think I’ve ever seen.”

            Vendetta’s one visible eye rolled, and she blew a breath up at the fringe of red hair that hung in her left eye.  “Righ’.  Handsome enough.”

            “But you didn’t see them!” Erika protested, turning her head so fast that her black braid flung out a bit.  “The colors, I tell you, the colors!  They were brown, but they were green, and they kept changing their shade–”

            “More drinks!” a thick voice bawled out from behind Erika.  Both women turned their heads to observe the table.  Erika felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach when she observed the seemingly ringleader of the group.

            “I’m sure your fathah would serve them if you asked,” Vendetta said in a low voice.

            Erika shook her head a bit as she picked up the platter.  “It’s fine.  I’ll be quick and be done with it.  I’ll be there and gone before the drunk can move his hand.”

            Erika afforded her friend no time to protest further before she whisked away.  She moved with the grace of a noble woman; steps smooth and measured, not hurrying but moving quickly, head held high.  She tried not to dwell on her first encounter with William Hughes.  It had regrettably not been the last.

            William Hughes was a regular at every tavern in Einsemar, no matter how fine or seedy the establishment.  The man was an alcoholic unlike any other, and when he was drunk there was only one thing he seemed capable of wanting.  Hughes was the son of a merchant, a rich one at that; all the family wealth had gone to the taverns for beer and women.  The coins never ran out, even with his father dead and William being filled with sloth.

            Perhaps worse than being a drunkard was the man’s equally unquenchable thirst for women.  Erika remembered her parents sitting her down when her breasts began to blossom and telling her to be quick footed about men like William Hughes.  She had not understood then, and had not understood for a few more years.  Her parents had done their best, but Erika’s naivety had won out and lasted a few more years.

            She was fifteen, just begun serving drinks and food even in the busiest hours of business, when she finally came to understood.

            She shoved the thoughts down, drawing a sharp breath in through her nose as she came up on William’s left – the side he had not heard from for nearly five years.  Erika picked up the pitcher she had brought and lighted it on the center of the table.  With a neat little skip, she bounded backwards and swept on around the rounded table and its assemblage.  A little sigh escaped her, one of great relief.  Perhaps–

            Without warning a heavy hand caught onto Erika’s waist and all but jerked her backward.  A little squeal let out of her – much like the squeal she had breathed those five years back in a situation that was dizzyingly familiar.  A slurred groan of words came out from behind her as another of those meaty hands groped at her waist, sliding lower until squeezing her backside.

            Was this better or worse than being fifteen and plopped down on a stranger’s lap that came alive beneath her with arousal?  She could feel a scream clawing at her throat, just as it had before when William had introduced her to the desperate desires of men.

            Older and wiser and wishing not to make as much of a scene, Erika bared her teeth, fingers tightening on the thick wood platter she held.  The drunk voices leering were a mere buzz through the pulsing anger.  She twisted at the waist, all but snarling as she slammed the tray down on William’s balding head.  There was a mighty _crack!_ , and her hands plunged down as the platter split over his head.  William’s hands dropped from Erika’s body, and she lunged away, turning as she moved to glare back at William.  She regarded the dazed look on his face with great triumph, though she knew it was not hers alone.  Erika was by no means strong enough to split such thick wood over a man’s head, and she knew just where her help had come from

            A small hand clamped on her shoulder for a moment before Vendetta brushed by.  Vendetta stopped before William long enough to grab onto his tunic and heave him up into the air – seemingly an impossible feat for a woman of her stature, but in the dead silence, no one questioned her.

            “No one touches my friend like tha’,” Vendetta hissed through clenched teeth.

            Vendetta whirled, all but hurling William away from her.  He crashed to the ground with a cry, scrambling to sit up.  Vendetta dropped a hand to the knife in her belt, plucking it free and hurtling it forward through the air.

            The tip sank into the ground just beneath his crotch – where a dark stain soon began to spread.  Roars of laughter sprang into the air.

            “Nex’ time I won’ miss!” Vendetta barked.  “Now, you worthless arse–!”

            “Get out of my tavern,” Charles snapped.  He stormed around the bar, grabbing William by the shoulders and hauling him to his feet.  “And if you ever come back, I’ll find the nearest Iron Guard and have him escort you to the stocks!  You’re not welcome here a moment longer, Hughes!”

            In all the ruckus that followed, no one noticed Vendetta stretching out a hand and the small dagger leaping free of the wood to meet her palm.  She thrust it back into its sheath without another word, storming across the floor to sit down at the bar.

            Erika hurried after her, dropping the broken platter to the bar before wrapping her arms around the other woman’s shoulders.  “Thank you so much.  I can get you a free drink?”

            “Didn’ do anything,” Vendetta replied.  “Just a li’l push on that platter.”

            “And throwing that fool to the ground and almost impaling his manlihood!”

            Vendetta shrugged, and when she turned her face towards Erika, there was a bit of a smile there.  “I jus’ hate men like tha’.  And most of them are tha’ way.”  Her green eyes turned hard as emeralds.  “All they want is sex, and tha’s how they break your heart.”

            Erika leaned back, squeezing Vendetta’s shoulder.  “Perhaps some.  Perhaps many, even.  But not all.  We just have to hope to be lucky.  Now . . . about that drink?”

            Vendetta rolled her eyes a bit.  “I’ll take a beer if you insist.”

            Erika grinned, already moving to go around the counter.  “Of course I do.  Anything for my dear friend.”


	5. A Devil's Bargain

            It had been a few days since her trip into the woods, and Erika was once more in the market.  The air was mild, teasing at her hair and clothes.  It was another beautiful day, as early spring so often was.  The intense heats of summer were well away, as were the deep chills of winter.  All was well.

            Except for the fact that Vendetta had given no reports on the mystery man from the south.  She had so wished her friend would be wrong, that the man would be around for a few days at least, stir up a little excitement.  For a city, Einsemar tended to be rather boring.  All the excitement happened out in the countryside, as far from the Iron King as possible.  With a penchant for violence, the King’s true and deep supporters were few and far between.  Most citizens were apt to support just enough to avoid trouble.  But there were those who were brave or fool enough to dare to voice a negative opinion.  These people were rare in Einsemar, where the King so often spent his days; it was far too dangerous to risk it.

            It was the war that had first brought the rising stirs of trouble.  Genosha was home to many people who possessed extraordinary talents, and it was a haven for these people.  Most other countries – or so Erika had heard – thought these people to be witches, cursed peoples, a million other horrid things.  They wanted such gifted people to be cleaned from the face of the earth.

            Many fled to Genosha, scaling snow peaked mountains and crossing raging rivers for a chance at safety.  For this reason, Genosha was an enemy to many of the nearest kingdoms.  Wars had spanned all across the history of the kingdom, from its first king En Sabah Nur, to the Iron King himself; the throne itself bore a bloody history of violence and plotting, lord vying for such a position of power.

            The Iron King was the first king in many long years to hold his position for more than five years, even if it was only by a matter of months as of yet.

            It was through his merciless grip that he retained his seat.  All kingdoms that had been warring in on and off patterns with Genosha had stopped for the time being.  The capital city was quiet, with a crime rate that was exceptionally low.  The kingdom was safe, prosperous, and rich in many regards.  But the price paid for these luxuries had been high, and it was that price that many people hated the King for.

            There had been no uprisings since before the winter; the last had been buried seemingly in the snow.  Erika was glad of that.  She hated violence.  Even if rumors of uprisings were about the most exciting thing to happen.

            And so it was that her days had become much the same of late; go to market, sweep the tavern floor, serve drinks and food and sing pretty songs, go to bed exhausted and do it all again.  She had hoped that perhaps the stranger in the tavern with his charming smile and odd behavior and pretty accent might mean something was going to happen.

            It seemed her hopes were to be wrong.  There would be no excitement it seemed, unless the gossip of the city had anything to give.  Erika stopped humming, turning her focus on the conversations around her.

            “He wants to marry her, can you believe it?  They’d have such hideous looking children!”

            “I’m telling you, there’s no better eggs in the Lands!”

            “–and I asked what they’re there for, and they said they’re looking for anyone who can _sing_!  Can you imagine what this may mean?  I could be _the King’s troubadour_!”

            Erika’s head snapped up, eyes wide and alert.  She turned her head this way and that until she saw a small gaggle of girls, all tittering and squealing in excitement.  Her stomach fluttered as she moved a little closer, ears straining to hear every word.

            “To sing at the feasts and the balls!” one young woman said, eyes fluttering as she brought the back of her hand to her brow.  “To meet so many handsome lords.  Oh, so romantic!”

            “And dramatic!” another squealed.  “All the castle _gossip_ , just at your fingertips!”

            “How long do you think they’ll be at the castle market?  I can’t go to the lords looking like this!”

            The castle market!  Erika turned away, walking with brisk, elongated strides as she worked through the crowd of shoppers.  It would be a lengthy walk, but she could make her excuses when she returned home.  This was far too important to pass up!

            Perhaps her assumption that there would be no excitement had been drawn too soon.

***

            The castle market, named for its proximity and stunning view of the royal palace, was far less busy than the main market.  The market housed more artisan wares rather than food, and more performers came in the hopes of an even better appreciation from the finer folk who lived so close to the palace.  The space was more open, more opulent, and in her simple dress, she felt far out of her place.  But she would not let such a thing deter her.  She brushed at the faded blue of her dress, drawing herself straighter.  A good impression was important to all things, particularly when those being impressed were of such high standing.

            She could see them, a group of men and women in fine garb, clustered at a table.  They were speaking among themselves, idle and cheery banter that she just managed not to hear.  A small group of guards, all tall and broad in the shoulders and garbed in gleaming armor, kept stoic watch over the lords and ladies.  Erika recognized them all as members of the Iron Guard.  The great swords at their sides marked them as members of the elite status of knights.

            Erika felt her own nerves hesitating to allow her any closer.  She was shy in nature, and the opulence of the nobility was making her more so.  It was somehow worse to note that they were all relatively young, close in age to herself.

            One of the lords looked over; even from the distance, she could see his eyes were a brilliant blue.  The corners of them crinkled as a smile came to him, and with a small gesture from his hand, his peers spread out into something more like a line.  The conversation dwindled, died, and all eyes turned to Erika.

            The young lord held out a hand, fingers curling in a beckoning gesture.  Erika could feel her knees threatening to tremble as she skirted around the fountain in the center of the square.  She stopped a few paces away from the three figures, easing herself into a curtsy.

            “No need for that today,” the young lord urged.  He stepped forward, gently taking hold of Erika’s arms and pulling her upright.  His voice bore a smoother and more elegant version of the Britannia accent that colored Vendetta’s voice.  “You’re here for the competition, yes?”

            Erika nodded, a shy shadow of a smile fighting to rise.  “I heard about a contest for the troubadour position.”

            “We’re very glad to have you join,” the young man replied.  “You’re well known around the city as the girl from The Forest’s Glen.”

            “Why- Why yes, I suppose I am.”  Erika blinked in surprised delight at the fact that she had been recognized.

            The young lord squeezed her arms encouragingly before releasing her and turning towards the woman on his left.  “Raven, would you mind passing me the list?”

            The blonde woman rolled her eyes, which seemed to flash gold in the light.  “Anything for you, Lord Xavier,” she replied in a tone of brittle sarcasm.

            Erika felt her mouth drop open for a second before she snapped it shut again.  She likely should not have been surprised, yet it was an immense honor to meet the Lord Xavier.

            There were no more than ten lords in Genosha.  For most of the kingdom’s history, the ten families had been stable, supporting their king even as power plays flew back and forth.  It had been nearly two centuries since the first family had been destroyed, every member slain in a bloody scandal.  The death of the Lehnsherr family had been more recent, almost twenty years ago.  The Iron King was the last of that old line.

            Of the eight remaining families, the Xavier family was the grandest.  Richest, oldest, most established, most influential; countless lords of the name Xavier had been the right hands of kings, though the throne had never carried one in all the years.

            Erika glanced down to the young lord’s chest, and saw the small necklace at his breast.  It was a golden circle, an X in its center; no more and no less than a symbol of the family.  She had to force herself out of her star struck wonder to listen when Lord Xavier resumed speaking to her.

            “If you could put your name on our list?” he asked, offering a quill to her.  “There will be a summons within the week, and you will be brought to the palace and had the competition explained to you in full.”

            “Of course,” she replied, her voice faint.  She reached out, careful not to be too forward and make any contact with his hand as she took the quill.

            “I think you’ve made her a bit shy, Charles” the other young lord spoke up.  Erika glanced sidelong at him.  He was dressed far more simply than his counterparts, and his pale complexion and large eyes gave him a scholarly appearance.

            “I had no intention of doing such thing,” Xavier replied, chuckling in what Erika would have called a nervous fashion from anyone else.  “I assure you, Miss Erika, that Raven, Hank, and myself are no different than anyone else.  We do the very same things all other people do.”

            “We’re just richer,” Lady Raven cut in.  “And have fancy, stuffy tutors.”

            Erika couldn’t help but smile, relaxing a little in their casual banter.  She signed her name on the paper with a brisk flourish before placing the quill on the table.  She stepped back, clutching at her basket and uncertain now just what she was to do.

            Xavier gave her another smile, blue eyes kind and open.  “I wish you the best of luck in the competition, Miss Erika.”

            She cast a last curtsy to the nobles, but her eyes drifted to the list of names before she turned away.  Chills wracked along her spine, and it took every ounce of self-control not to shudder visibly as she made her way back across the square.  As she left, aware of their eyes still on her, she felt overcome with the terrible feeling that she had signed onto a devil’s bargain.

***

            Walking with her thoughts far away was nothing out of the ordinary for Erika, and so the jarring feeling of her body being pushed aside by a collision with a stranger was nothing new to her.  Her thoughts snapped away from her worries of the potential competition and her aching daydreams of performing in the court.

            “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she said without hesitation as she turned to the person in question.  A startled blush shot onto her face when she saw who it was:  the woodsman who had helped her the day she had lost her way in the woods.

            He grinned, a slow and lazy expression as he turned more towards her.  An assortment of pelts were draped over his shoulder, soft and gleaming in the sunlight.  He was as rugged (and as handsome, though she would not admit that fully) as she remembered.

            “Shouldn’t I have known better to step out o’ your way, then?” he asked.  Erika blushed a deeper shade at the light teasing of his tone.

            “It matters not either way,” she said quickly.  “Goodbye–”

            “You said if I found you, you’d tell me your name.”

            Erika turned her head quickly, seeing his arrogant smile.  “I said perhaps I would.”

            The man’s eyes rolled up towards the sky, as if beseeching patience.  “Fair enough.  What are you doing so far into the city?”

            Erika frowned a little.  “Why do you ask that?”

            He stepped closer, tilting his head down towards her.  “Castle market’s awfully high society, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice gone low.

            Erika shuddered, not quite meeting his eyes.  “It is, but I–”

            “And lords and ladies.  They’re out today.  Something about a contest for a new troubadour.”  He arched his left brow a bit.  “Sure you don’t know anythin’ about that?”

            “I overheard some young women speaking of it,” she replied, finally looking up through her lashes at him.

            “Did you sign onto it?”

            “You don’t even know if I can sing!”

            “Did you?”

            Erika blinked, stepping back slightly from him.  “Why should I tell you?”

            The woodsman’s eyes grew dark and shuttered.  “The royal court is not what it seems.  Intrigues, tragedies; it’s not a place for a girl like you.”

            “You don’t know me.”

            “You’re right,” he replied, eyes lightening a bit, tone going brisk; sarcasm, Erika realized.  “I don’t even know your name.”

            “I don’t know yours, either.  You’re just a woodsman.  I’m just a tavern girl.  Isn’t that enough?”

            The woodsman smiled, a slow and thoughtful smile.  “Tavern girl, eh?  That’s interesting.  I’ve heard of only one beautiful enough to even possibly be you.  Hear she’s got a bit of a bite, too.  Broke a wood tray over a man’s head the other night accordin’ to some.”  Erika blushed again, and the woodsman laughed.  “So she is you!  Erika . . .”

            “Now you really should be telling me your name,” she said, arms wrapping around herself.

            “Logan.  My name’s Logan.”

            “Logan,” she echoed, falling quiet for a moment, as much to assess his name rather as he had done for hers.  “It suits you.  But how did you hear about that?”

            He grinned, the left corner of his mouth higher than the right.  “I know people, and people talk.  It’s pretty impressive.  Brave, too.  Bastard deserved it from what I hear.”

            “Of course he did,” Erika replied quickly.  “I’m not a mean person, Logan.”

            “No.  I can tell.”  His smile turned softer.  “Be careful?  The King isn’t all he seems, and neither is his court.  Things are happening.  People are disappearing again.”

            “What?  Who?”

            “Some man who ran an inn on the south side o’ Einsemar.  Browne, I think was his name.”  Logan shrugged a bit.  “Hard t’say what happened.  Could’ve been the Iron Guard.”

            “Logan!” Erika hissed sharply.  “Don’t talk like that!  If someone would hear you say that, you’d get us both in a world of trouble.  Or worse.”

            His eyes flashed, and Erika felt a chill swarm down her spine.  “And being silent can sometimes be even worse.  If you’ll excuse me, I really should be going.  Business to do, after all.”

            “Logan–”

            He turned away from her, stepping back into the flow of foot traffic.  Erika tried to watch after him, but before she knew it, he had vanished from her sight.


	6. Lady of Secrets

            Erika worked through the rest of her chores for the day in a sort of haze.  There were bountiful things troubling her mind; the competition she had yet to tell her parents of, the chance encounter with Logan on her way back from castle market, his words of the Browne man’s disappearance.  They all ran about her head in turns, taunting and teasing her with their own intrigues and concerns.  The thoughts chased her into the evening, into the night.  With her mind so scattered, it was a wonder she could serve the tables that night with any semblance of efficiency.

            A finger tapped her on the shoulder.  Erika jumped, whirling around with wide eyes.  She breathed out a sigh when she saw it was only Vendetta.

            “Wot’s gotten in your head this evening?” the redhead asked before tagging a swig of her beer.  “You didn’ even notice me come in.”

            “I’m sorry,” Erika said with a sigh.  She was cut off from speaking further by the bawling voice of a patron that was on his way to too many drinks in too short a time.  The two women exchanged a look that was both disappointed and bemused.

            “Tell me when you’re done wi’ him,” Vendetta replied.  “I can wait.”

            Erika smiled, squeezing her friend’s arm quickly before she hurried across the room.  A bit less distracted, she offered a smile to the table of men before serving up their drinks.  In a moment, she had whisked away, going back to where Vendetta sat at the bar.  She paused to scan the room, assuring herself that she had at least a few moments to take a break.

            Erika all but collapsed onto the stool beside her friend.  “I have had quite the day!”

            Vendetta made a humming sound into her drink, her jade eyes moving towards the petite woman beside her.  Erika smiled at her, the expression tired – worried, even; and then she launched into the telling of the day’s events.  Her narrative began with the overheard gaggle of giggling girls, and finished with the woodsman and his ominous words.  It was an interrupted narrative, broken at odd moments by the demands of the tavern patrons.  Vendetta followed it with ease, though, and when Erika was finally finished, she was quick to speak up.

            “You signed up for the competition.”

            Erika raised her chin in defiance.  It was no surprise to her that her friend would argue against the notion of her affiliating herself with the Iron King’s court; it was no secret to her that Vendetta bore ill feelings to the King.

            The redhead shook her head before taking another drink.  Though her left eye was covered in her hair as always, her jade glare was still piercing.  “Tha’ job isn’ one to take lightly, girl.  You know tha’!  The King isn’ the easiest man to please.”

            “But it’s my dream,” Erika protested, her own eyes alight with passion.  “You know this is exactly what I’ve wanted since I started singing!”

            “Damn tha’ minstrel you met!” Vendetta spat out.  “Damn him for showin’ you how to sing and fillin’ your head with all these clouds!”

            “Why don’t you want me to have this?”  Erika shook her head, lines creasing her pale brow.  “Why don’t you want my dreams to come true?”

            Vendetta’s eyes hardened, darkened.  “Because it’s dangerous.  The court . . . it’s a whole different world, luv.  It’s not like the rest of the ci’y.  The people in it aren’ like othah people.  They’ve got secrets, daggahs poised to stab everyone else in the back.  You’re too pure for it.  You wouldn’ last a second.”

            Erika shook her head, raising a hand to dash the tears from her eyes.  “I wouldn’t be in the castle all the time.  I’d be here unless I was wanted for something or another.  I’d be safe.”

            Vendetta shook her head slightly.  “Maybe, but maybe not.  I know I can’ ge’ you to back down from it.  You have to promise me you’ll be careful.  Won’ you?”

            Erika nodded without any hesitation.  “Of course I will be!  When aren’t I careful?”

            Vendetta’s visible eyebrow arched up.  “You really wan’ me to answah tha’?”

            A blush sparked in Erika’s cheeks.  “No, actually, I don’t think I do.”

            “Course not.  You’re not so careful all the time, luv.  Let’s not fight abou’ this.  I know I can’t stop you, but if you’ll be careful, I can feel at least a bit bettah abou’ it.”

            Erika nodded, a relieved smile softening her face.  “I promise I’ll be as careful as I can be.”

            “Good.  Now, if you’re interested, I’ve got some interesting information abou’ someone.”

            The tavern girl’s eyes brightened in curiosity.  “You do?  Who?”

            “A certain mysterious man with a southern accent.”

            “The southerner!”  Erika leaned closer to her friend, eyes wide and alert.  “Tell me everything.”

            Vendetta smiled, tracing the tip of her finger along the lip of her tankard.  “He’s talked to some people, mostly idle chatter from the sounds of it.  Anyone tha’ did talk abou’ him said he wasn’t a fan of eye contact.  And he’s always got that cloak with him, with a purple lining and a fleur-de-lis clasp.  Helped an old lady who dropped some things, even.  By all appearances, he’s a gentleman.

            “But he’s a thief.”

            Erika frowned a little.  She knew that the southern kingdoms were famous for their guilds.  Vendetta had already mentioned thieves, assassins, but how did she know enough to pin him down as one of them?

            As if reading the question in her eyes, Vendetta continued: “It’s the cloak.  The lining and clasp specifically.  Purple is the color of the Thieves Guild of Orleen, and the fleur-de-lis their symbol.  If you know these things, it’s easy to read.”

            Erika looked at her friend for a moment, the lady of secrets.  Erika could sense she was on the edge of one.  Questions were poised at the tip of her tongue.  When her lips parted, however, none stepped forth.

            “Tha’s not even all the news,” Vendetta continued; her voice had quickened, gone earnest and tight.  “Turns out our friend was asking around, questions about what’s in the forest.  I overheard a guard talking abou’ a hooded man going into to the woods yesterday morning, when the mist was still out.”

            “What reason would he have to go out there?” Erika mused, fine lines appearing between her eyebrows as she frowned.

            Vendetta shrugged.  “There’s your mystery, luv.  Could be he’s meeting someone out there.  Why else would a professional thief be in Einsemar if not on a job?  And with our fickle king, would you be seen fraternizing with anyone from out of town tha’ migh’ be suspicious?”

            Erika shook her head slowly.  It would be all too likely that the king would assume that a stranger in his city would mean an uprising.  No one wanted the streets of their own home to run red with blood, especially when it was unwarranted.  “Thank you for informing me.  There’s one more thing on my mind.”

            “If you get me anothah drink, this one free, I’ll answer.”

            Erika cast a sidelong glare at the woman, unsurprised to see her sporting a cheeky grin.  Erika stood up, grabbing her friend’s tankard.  The tavern had quieted some, for which she was grateful; she wouldn’t have to keep such a close watch on the other tables.  She rounded the counter and went to the cask of ale.  The drink spilled forth, frothing and almost gold in the dim, close lighting of the tavern.  As soon as it was topped off, Erika returned to her friend, this time remaining on the other side of the bar.  As Vendetta wetted her throat, Erika filled a pitcher with ale and made rounds to top off any drinks.

            From across the tavern, she could appreciate something of her friend.  While everyone else in the tavern had at least one friend with them, Vendetta was alone.  In truth, Erika doubted the woman had many other friends besides herself.  The lady of secrets was not only tight lipped about that which she heard and saw; she was just as secretive about herself.  Of all the people in the city, Erika knew the most about the woman, and even that was very little.  The redhead had appeared one day, and had yet to leave.  No one knew just where she was from, though she obviously had roots in Britannia; her accent was undeniable.  Beyond that, all was a mystery.

            Vendetta was rich enough, though.  She owned her own home, her own building even.  She had bought a small building that had once belonged to a tailor who had died when Erika was a very small girl.  The whole building belonged to the woman now.  Erika had asked once where she had gotten the money.  Vendetta never gave a full answer.

            So shrouded was she in mystery that Erika had fallen prey to imagining various possible backstories for her friend.  The stories she told herself grew increasingly wild the longer she thought on the matter.  Logically, Bronwyn St. Vincent had been a traveling performer, like so many people that came through Genosha, and had likely settled in Einsemar for the patronage of the people and the fact that mutants were welcomed under the Iron King's rule.

            But that was far too mundane a past for the headstrong, fiery woman.  Erika's following theory on her friend was that Bronwyn had ran away from her home to seek her fortune as a performer.  Perhaps her parents had wanted her to settle down and marry someone in a small, sleepy town, and Bronwyn simply wouldn’t have it.  A mundane life of marriage to some man or another, childbirth and motherhood, perhaps inheriting the family farm or workplace if Bronwyn were their only child would never do for someone like her.  It would be no wonder that someone like her had fled that life and gone on her own way of adventures.

            But there were other possibilities, other attempts to make sense of the fiery personality, the stubborn independence, the dislike of men, the choice of stage name, the scar that she hid beneath her hair.  Erika had concocted any number of stories behind her friend.  A former English knight; her family and friends had disgraced her for choosing such a manly future, but that had not stopped her from wanting to protect her kingdom; but when she had been discovered as telekinetic, she had been chased out by her fellow knights, and one had managed to slash their blade over her left eye, leaving that eye poorer than the other and branding her with a scar.  A pirate; abducted as a young girl by a band of filthy pirates, and while her initial cooperation had made them feel secure, she had always been planning to escape; at seventeen, the captain, drunk off his arse as Bronwyn herself would say, tried to rape her; the opportunity was ripe, and she killed him and took his place; she retired from that life young, though, and had a secret fortune hidden somewhere.  An English lady who had sailed across the sea to be married, but dressed as a boy and sneaked away when the ship landed.  A sword for hire who had tired of the violence and chosen a more peaceful route in life.  A princess who had escaped from the dragon that had kidnapped her; when the prince went to save her, he thought he was too late and she had perished, and the kingdom still mourned on the day of her birth.

            Crazy ideas, but Erika thought them up anyway.  If nothing else, crafting insane backstories on her mysterious friend kept her entertained while she made her rounds about the tavern.

            Erika returned to her friend, taking her former seat beside her.  “I overheard someone talking about a disappearance.  Have you heard anything of that sort?”

            Vendetta looked down into her drink.  Her expression had shifted to a far more shuttered look than was customary.  “I’ve heard something.  Rumors more than facts, I’d say.  Something about a man named Browne, or something like that.  I’ve heard other variations, but Browne is the most common.”  She shrugged a bit.  “If it’s true, it happened in the night.  If it had been in the day, witnessed, there’d be a lot more talk.”

            Erika hesitated, her blue eyes gone dark with concern.  The fact that she gave the same name as Logan had made Erika feel uneasy.  It was all the more likely to be true for being heard from two sources.  “Do you think something bad is happening?”

            Vendetta did not reply at once, favoring instead to take a drink.  “For the sake of everyone, I hope to hell, no.”


	7. The Thief

            The days began to blur into an anxious anticipation for word of the troubadour competition.  The tension of waiting frayed Erika’s nerves to a breaking point.  Even the slightest annoyance was enough to have her snapping.  While it was not uncommon for her to fall prey to odd moods, she did her best to keep them to herself.  It was in such moods that her own _abilities_ could be dangerous.  Something in her voice gave her the power to hypnotize people, make them think or act or feel a certain way.  If she focused hard enough, she could even tell how people were feeling.  Her uncle was similarly gifted, able to tell emotions by _auras_ as he described them.

            Erika tried her best not to let her strange talents of ‘persuasion’ out in any situation.  And when she was calm, it was an easy thing.  When she was upset, for any reason . . . it was not so easy.  And with her tendency to snap first and consider what she said later, it could be potentially dangerous.  One wrong slip of tongue could hurt someone deeply.

            The rasp of the broom across the floor had lulled Erika into a trance of thought.  She moved by reflex to sweep up the last traces of sawdust and wood shavings that had been left when last night’s layer was scooped out by her father.  The thin dusting was always foul by the end of the night, smelling of ale, piss, and vomit.  It soaked up the worst of it, though, and once it was removed, the air always smelled a bit fresher.

            Erika nudged the door of the tavern open with her foot to sweep out the accumulated pile.  In a few brisk flicks of the broom, the residue of last night was on the street.  She swept it into the low gutter, then took a moment to lean back against the wall with a sigh.

            “Well don’t you look a bit forlorn today?”

            Erika opened her eyes quickly; she knew the voice, but it had been a few weeks since she’d heard it.  She looked up at the man standing before the tavern, and broke into a bright smile.

            “Uncle Christophe!”  She all but squealed in delight as she sprang forward and embraced him.  Christophe laughed, arms wrapping around her and lifting her up off the ground.  He set her down a few seconds after, and Erika stepped back to look at him.  “Where have you been?  Your bakery isn’t so far you can’t visit!”

            “Sincerest apologies, m’lady,” he said, sketching a bow.  “My sons and I have been quite busy these last few weeks.”

            “I forgive you easily,” Erika laughed, “but your brother may be a bit more hesitant to.”

            Christophe’s brown eyes flashed with pretend pain.  “How I hate to wound my other half,” he bemoaned.  One hand pressed over his heart in such an absurdly dramatic gesture that Erika couldn’t help but laugh again.  Christophe dropped his hand suddenly, gone serious for the time being.  “But what troubles you, dear?  Your aura is quite moody today, and usually you’re so infallibly bright.”

            Erika sighed softly, putting her arms around herself.  Her fingers began to pluck at the material of her blue dress in a nervous gesture.  “Did you hear of the troubadour contest the King is holding . . . ?”

            “I certainly did.  Did you sign on?  You’ve always wanted that role.”

            Erika could only nod.

            “Then why so upset?” her uncle asked, lines forming on his forehead as he frowned.

            “I’m waiting for the summons still, and the week is nearly over.”

            Christophe smiled, gently grasping one of her arms and unwrapping it from around her.  “Then just try to be a bit more patient.  It’ll come.  Did you tell your parents?”

            She gave a small nod.  It had been a brief discussion, which she was rather glad of.  Her parents had been supportive, if not enthusiastic.  Like everyone else, they seemed uneasy with the prospect of Erika affiliating herself at all within the Iron King’s court.  Beyond that, there had been no other mention of it.

            “There’s nothing to worry about,” Christophe assured her.  “All shall be as it is meant to be.”  He took Erika’s hands for a second, squeezing them reassuringly.  “Now, how about we go in and face my brother’s wrath at me?”

            “You can face it,” Erika laughed, “there will be no wrath at me!”

            “May God help me, then.”  Her uncle gave her hands a last squeeze before releasing them and entering the tavern.  Erika remained outside, listening to the door thump shut behind him.

            Erika sighed, leaning back against the wall more firmly, hands clasping before her.  Regardless of what anyone said, she couldn’t help but worry.  There was only one last day before the end of the week.  Had her name been skipped over by accident?  Were only people of any wealth to be considered?  Was she foolish to do this, to chase a dream?

            She steeled herself, biting back the crushing emotions.  She picked the broom back up in her hands, and pushed once more into her reality.

***

            The nights were growing warmer as spring deepened.  Most patrons of the Forest’s Glen had forgone their cloaks; the evening was fair and clear in the first truly beautiful night since before the winter.

            Perhaps, if it had been only a night or two earlier, he would have escaped her attention upon entrance.  But the circumstances were not with him; the flare of his cloak caught Erika’s eye, and her head turned to follow the gleam of purple as it slipped in among the tables.  Her heart skipped a nervous beat at the tall figure that settled into a lone corner.  He wore no hood tonight, though his long hair shadowed his face.

            Erika was staring too long, for he was staring back now.  She schooled her expression into one of harmless curiosity.  Surely it was not too suspicious to stare at a stranger?

            The southerner lifted a hand, fingers curling in a beckoning gesture.  Erika glanced for a second at the pitcher of ale she held, noting it was still mostly full.  She swung by the bar, grabbing a tankard for him, and then wove her way through the tables.  Fair as the night was, it was quiet; people had better things to do, it seemed, than drink and make merry.

            “Welcome to the Forest’s Glen,” she said upon reaching him.  “What could I get you tonight, sir?”

            “A drink for starters, _chere_ ,” he said.  His head raised, hair falling back.  Erika’s eyes were drawn immediately to his, and there they froze, widening, at the man’s gaze.  His eyes were black, irises shockingly red against all the black.  He leaned forward, eyes insistent but never moving from hers.  “And for you ta not be afraid.”

            Erika nodded, a mere jerk of her head as she set the tankard down and filled it.  “What else?”

            “I hear dere’s a lady askin’ questions ‘bout me.  De man in a purple cloak, de southerner, call me what you will.”  His hand, long fingered and graceful, pulled his drink close.  “And she’s your friend.  Are you de one wantin’ ta know about me?”

            Erika blushed, if only a bit.  “Why ever would you think that?”

            “I was here before.”  His voice melted into a low chuckle, the sound as warm and sweet as his accent.  “Ya seemed curious den, figured ya stayed curious.  What is it ya wanna know, Erika?”

            “How–?”

            “I’m a Thief.  I know things.”

            Erika sighed, resigning herself to the fact that that was all the information she would receive on that matter.  “Very well.  What is your name?”

            “Remy LeBeau, at your service,” he replied, sketching as much a bow as he could while seated.  “Known as Gambit in my line o’ work.”

            Erika cast a worried look out over the tables, but all was calm; quiet, by tavern standards, even as conversations roared one over another.  No fights, no one in need of anything.

            Knowing she should not, but helpless to stop herself, Erika sank into a seat near the southerner.  He leaned forward a bit, arms folded on the tabletop.  His long cloak hung around him, obscuring his shape in its folds.  He looked at ease, but still ready to spring into action at a second’s notice.

            “You say Thief like it’s a very important word,” she finally said.  She did not dare to move her eyes from him.  He did not seem bad; if anything, he was quite friendly.  Still, she dared not trust him.

            “It is an important word,” Remy drawled in reply.  “Don’ know much ‘bout Orleen, _non_?”  At the shake of her head, he plunged ahead.  “In short, Orleen is controlled by two guilds.  One is de Assassins – violent group o’ people; swords for hire.  An den the Thieves.  Masters o’ stealin’, secrets, and poisons.  Thieves don’ kill unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

            As much as Erika wanted to ask more about such an interesting political body, there were far more important things to ask the Thief.  “Why are you here?  Orleen is quite far from here.”

            “Business.  Ya can’t expect me ta tell ya what I’m doin’, really.”  His strange eyes gleamed with humor.  “Thieves deal in secrets, _chere_.”

            Erika opened her mouth, ready to try and wrest the answers from his mouth, but a sharpening of his expression cut her into silence.  She looked away, down to where her hands were folded in her lap.  They trembled like leaves in a brisk wind.  “Is something going to happen?” she whispered, daring to lift her eyes to peer through dark lashes at the man.

            “Something happens every day, Erika.  But if you are asking in reference to the vanished man from de other night . . . yes.  Do not ask me any more questions.  It is best you do not know.”

            Her heart beat heavy in her chest, thick and fast.  Her trembling hands braced on the table as she rose once more.  “Am I endangering myself?  By talking with you?”

            His mouth, so elegant in his handsome face, gave a smile that was never echoed in his eyes.  “I wouldn’t want to but something so beautiful as you in danger, Erika.  Walk with caution.”

            Erika parted her lips, wanting to speak once more.  A man, somewhere in the haze behind her, gave a burst of sudden laughter.  Erika whirled, eyes wide and startled as she tore a searching gaze about the room.

            She turned to the table again, already knowing what she would see:  an empty tankard and abandoned chair.


	8. Missive

            There was nothing special to mark the day that her life would change forever.  The weather was typical, sunny with a mild breeze.  There were no strange feelings she felt.  It was a day like any other, until it became like no other.

            Erika returned from the market, her basket laden with fresh foods.  She hummed to herself as she went to the counter and set the basket down.  She picked up the meat she had bought, the wrapping around it crinkling under her hands.  Her humming turned into singing, wordless yet still lovely.  She opened the larder and set the meat in, and checked the quality of the few remaining pieces in it.  Finding them still in good condition, she rewrapped them and shut the larder doors.

            A cough behind her cut Erika into sudden silence.  She turned about to face the person, her brow arched slightly in inquiry.

            It was a man, a stranger, dressed in royal livery of red with a slight brocade of silver on the hems of his tunic.  He stood just past the doorway of the tavern, framed in the sunlight.  His hair was a beautiful shade of, each curl gilded.  His eyes were a pretty shade of brown.  There was a sweetness to his face, and a shyness to his smile.  He held a slip of paper in his hand.

            “Miss Deforest, I presume,” the young man said.  A smile broke upon his youthful face, crinkling up his eyes.  Erika was helpless but to echo the expression.

            “You would be correct, sir,” she said, inclining her head in a slight nod.

            “Wonderful!” he said, and held the folded slip of paper out to her.  “This is for you, then; a summons from the Iron King, for the troubadour position in the court.”

            Erika’s lips parted as she took a steadying breath.  Her heartbeat thrummed in her throat.  A rush of excitement swept through her so swift as to be dizzying.  With a hand that trembled, she took the paper from the young man.  “Thank you,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

            His smile brightened for a moment.  “You’re most welcome!  I wish you luck in the competition, Miss Deforest.”  He sketched a shallow bow before making his exit.  Erika caught a glimpse of him going to his horse and swinging up into the saddle before the door fell shut.

            Erika looked down at the paper in her hands.  Her name stared back at her, penned in a handsome script.  Her steps fell slow as she walked to the bar and sat down on one of the stools.  Her hands steadied, but the trembling had spread and grown into a vague tremor that vibrated through her entire being.  She unfolded the paper, and stared at the words.  She read them in a vague way, the words clanging in her mind but not truly registering.  It was too much, the excitement just shy of unbearable.

            She shut her eyes and breathed out a faint laugh.  She sat so for a time, running her fingers over the paper.  Once her trembling had subsided and rational thought returned to her mind, Erika opened her eyes again and looked at the message again.

            Her eyes were drawn to the largest print first; the date – that very day – and a time – four hours after noon.  She glanced up at the brief message at the top, a curt sentence of gratitude, clearly only placed for those who could read.

            Erika breathed out a sigh, smoothing the paper out over the table again.  It felt surreal, in a way.  All the time she had spent waiting, all her desperate dreams, coalesced to this one moment.  She had her chance to have everything she desired.

            Footsteps from behind the counter made her look up.  Seeing no one present, she leaned over the counter to peer towards the door to the cellar.  Her father’s head appeared in the doorway, soon followed by the rest of him, cradling a fresh cask against his torso.  He set it down on an empty stand with a sigh.  Charles mopped some sweat off his brow before turning towards his daughter.

            “Who was that man who came in?” he asked, bracing himself against the counter.  “I could hear his voice.  He said something about a summons?”

            Erika pushed the paper towards her father.  “For the troubadour competition.  I’m to go to the palace today, at the king’s behest.”

            Her father looked at the paper for a moment before pushing it back.  “You know Marie and I are proud of you, yes?”

            Erika blinked, a frown drawing at the corners of her mouth.  “Of course.”

            “Good.  If you do win this contest, we’ll still be proud of you.  It takes courage to be yourself in a world like this one, and you have never failed to be who you are.  You are the joy of our lives, our pride, our love.  Whatever happens, we will always be here for you.”

            Erika smiled, reaching out and taking her father’s hand.  “And I shall always remember you and always come back.”

            Charles squeezed her hand, his smile both brilliant and a touch sorrowful.  He released her without another word, turning to go back into the cellar.  Erika watched his descent, her own smile much like his.

***

            It felt so strange to walk into the heart of Einsemar without a basket on her arm or in her hand.  Erika felt the distinct impression that she was missing a necessary piece of herself.  She walked with her head bowed faintly, ducking past strangers and those faces who were regulars of the tavern.  None seemed to notice her, and that was how she preferred it.

            She clutched the King’s missive in her hand.  The paper was bent in new places from her hard grip, but she cared little for that in the moment.  The slip of paper, fragile as it was, kept her feeling grounded to reality.  Without it, she was sure she would drown in the sea of her own nerves and anxiety.  This was the beginning of a new world for her, regardless of how the competition would go.  If she won, nothing would ever be the same.  But if she lost, her heart would surely shatter in her very chest.

            Swept upon the ebb and flow of her own thoughts, she moved ever deeper into the city.  The press of people thickened, and the swirls of fabric she saw in the corner of her eye were increasingly finer.  She was drawing closer, and closer, and closer.

            A shadow fell over her, and Erika froze.  Slowly, she raised her eyes up, and then her head, tilting back to gaze up at the building that had blocked out the sun.

            The Iron King’s palace loomed above her, its turrets clawing at the perfect blue of the sky.  Sunlight shattered around the tower that had hidden it from sight.

            Erika lowered her gaze down to the north side of the palace, towards the gatehouse and the portcullis.

            Her hand tightened upon her missive, and she began to walk.


	9. The Contest

            The Iron King’s palace had housed countless kings through the history of Genosha.  Separated from Einsemar by its own wall of thick, towering stone, the palace was built of stones unlike any other in the city.  It was a pale construction, an old white that had been stained by the elements.  The shingles that topped each tower were dark gray.  The towers, all of heights that varied in small increments, surrounded the very heart of the palace, where a glittering dome of glass stood.

            Centuries ago, The First had built the palace.  The legend of him, if one were to believe it, was that he had been banished from his desert kingdom, and fled to the heart of a foreign land.  He had been a great conqueror, sweeping out across all the lands on the continent and claiming them as his own.  His reach had been too ambitious, and piece by piece, he began to lose control.  Those he had oppressed took up their weapons and marched towards his city.  In a rage, he had cast a spell, or perhaps he had had his own strange powers.  The mountains had risen around the last of the land he still controlled.  None ever saw him again.  Unless the old story of the northern villages were to be believed, wherein a cloaked and hooded figure had ridden into the mountains one stormy evening and never come down; after the storm, a party went to find a man or a body, and only found a large rock encrypted with a language of pictures.  Only one line had been legible to them:  En Sabah Nur.  The name that ancient king had given himself.

            There were whispers of a curse on Genosha’s throne.  The throne’s bloody history was well known, and had stretched back throughout all of the written history – and surely further than that.  The rumored curse was said to destroy any king who rose to the throne.  And every death had been strange or violent.  King Leiro, a ruler noted for his riotous and lascivious parties, had died suddenly in his bed, blood pouring from his every orifice.  Queen Mara, who had been thought to have poisoned her husband so she could wield the power herself, had died by what appeared to be poison; a paranoid queen, she had had four taste testers for each course of a meal, and none of them had died or shown any illness.  And the endless deaths from violence; kings felled in battle by the sword, torn down for crimes against the kingdom and publicly executed, slain by rivals and avenging men.  Shaw, the untitled king and the Iron King’s predecessor, had been slain by the Iron King’s own hand in revenge for Shaw slaying his family before his own eyes.  The scandal had torn through the whole of Genosha, its own violent summer storm of shock.

            The number of kings that had sat on the throne for more than five years was small, shockingly so.  Yet the Iron King had managed a vice on it for five, and was leaping past the number, into his seventh year.  War had been the norm for the first years, accompanied by violent outbursts of the commoners who loathed the war that had won Genosha hard earned peace for the last year.

            Erika loathed the thought of rebellions against the Iron King.  He had won the kingdom its peace, a peace that had been missing for her childhood.  She could remember those days; when food was rationed and the tavern had been either tensely quiet or violently loud; when she was never allowed in the streets alone; when the cathedral and castle bells would toll mournful over processions of dead soldiers.  Erika did not miss those visions.

            To think there had been no news of any uprisings, any strange disappearances of men, until the news of Browne she had heard twice.  It had been peaceful, soothing, to think that all was well.  She had heard nothing else since then, but that did not ease her at all.  Erika knew she had only to wait; something would happen, other men would gather the courage to voice their opinions with word or action.

            Was peace ever an option?

            Erika shook her head, rising out of the dark and tangled muddle of thought.  There were more important things to consider.  She was _inside_ the royal palace, waiting with strangers to see the king.

            Needing the distraction, Erika turned her attentions to the others in the room.  There were men and women both, though the men were far outnumbered.  Most of the people seemed to be of a merchant class, bedecked in finer fabrics, some even wearing jewels.  They had gathered into milling clusters, conversation swelling among them.  Erika didn’t bother to listen in; what more could it be than gossip among the circles of society?  They were above her in society; she did not belong with them.

            Erika skirted around the strangers before sinking into a seat.  She squirmed into the seat to find a comfortable position.  It was far softer than any chair she had been familiar with in her life.  Now, if only the chair could swallow her and ensure no one would notice her, or try to talk to her.

            Her wish was too late; a young woman, pretty and petite with a long fall of pale blonde hair flounced over, a smile beaming across her features.  Her dress was, like Erika’s, simple and undecorated with the fineries that surrounded her.  The simple green dress suited her, though, drawing attention to the beauty of the woman, not her wealth.  A sweeping sense of comfort and relief flowed through Erika from head to toe; at least she was not alone in simplicity.

            “May I sit with you?” she asked, eyes flitting over to the empty chair beside Erika.

            Erika smiled in reply.  “If you wish.”

            “Thank you!  I’m Vivian, by the way, pleased to make your acquaintance.”

            “Erika.”

            “Have you ever competed before?” Vivian gushed as she collapsed into her chair.  “I never have.  I’ve hardly sang for anyone besides my family.  They thought I should sign up to the competition because they say I have a pretty voice, but–” Vivian grimaced, brows plunging down into a cold arch, dark eyes clamped shut.  “Sorry.  I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

            “Only a little,” Erika replied, not quite able to keep from smiling.  “There’s nothing wrong in being nervous to see the king.  I’ve never competed before, either.  I’m nervous, too.”  She reached over to light her hand on Vivian’s for a moment.  “We’ll be all right, though.”

            Vivian leaned close.  Her eyes were dark behind long, pale lashes.  “But look at all of them,” she whispered.  “They’re from money.  They’ve probably had singing instructors since they were children.”

            Erika bit at her lip for a second before shaking her head.  “Don’t think about it,” she urged.  “We’ll just have to do the best that we can.”

            But Vivian’s words concerned her.  The girl had a point; they were both outclassed by all the other men and women in the gaudy garb and perfect manners.  What were two common women doing in a castle, anyway?  Neither of them belonged among such finery; paintings and tapestries, thick rugs, couches and chairs built from the finest wood and cloth.  They did not belong.  They belonged on the outside, with common folk.  The only way to come in would be in a gilt cage that the king would wave about, an accessory to impress foreign dignitaries and a bauble to play with when bored.

            Perhaps this was all a terrible mistake.

            “Erika?”  Vivian’s hand tightened around hers, drawing Erika back from her thoughts.  She looked once more to the young woman, noting the concern in her eyes.  “Are you all right?”

            Erika nodded, squeezing her hand gently.  “I am.  I was only thinking for a moment.”

            Vivian nodded in understanding.  “Why did you sign up to the competition?” she asked.

            Relief squeezed Erika’s chest.  Conversation could surely distract her from any dark thoughts she could conjure.  “I fell in love with singing when I was a little girl.  My father owns a tavern, the Forest’s Glen.  A band of travelling performers came through town and stopped at our tavern one night, performed on the stage.  It was so magical, their singing and dancing, the plays and poetry.  But, of course, a minstrel isn’t a position looked upon with respect.  You know what people say about the women in such bands.  So I decided I wanted to sing, and I wanted to do it in the castle, so I could do what I love and be respected.”

            Vivian nodded in understanding.  “I like singing, too.  I’m awfully shy, though, so I don’t do it much when people are around.  But when I heard about this contest, and the pay the court troubadour makes . . .”  Vivian sighed softly, her gaze fallen to the floor.  “My father’s farm hasn’t been doing well, and my mother’s been ill lately.  I wanted to help somehow, to make money.  There’s purses for some of the other top contests.  I don’t even want to win; I just want to be able to help my family.”

            “I hope you earn a purse, then,” Erika said softly.  “And if you don’t . . .  I sing in the tavern.  The patrons give me tips for performing.  You could always come and sing there for money.  Or you could help serve people, bring them their food and drink.  It’s just my parents and I, and we’re always busy.”

            Vivian looked back up at Erika, eyes wide, a smile just drawing at her lips.  “Really?  You think I could?”

            “I know you could,” Erika smiled.  “You can come back with me after this and we’ll explain to my father.”

            “Thank you so much, Erika!”  Vivian brought her free hand up to her face, fingers swiping under her eyes briefly.  “You’re so wonderfully kind, thank you.”

            “You don’t have to thank me.  It’s the right thing to do.”

            The doors of the room swept open before Vivian could reply.  Both girls turned their heads swiftly.  The young man who had brought Erika her missive stood in the doorway.  Silence draped across the room as all eyes turned to him.

            “Welcome,” he called out to the room, “to the royal palace.  His majesty wishes to see you all together now and explain the contest. If you will follow me, I shall bring you to the throne room.”

            Erika and Vivian stood, hands still clasped in camaraderie. The other contestants rushed forward, crowding up to the marshal of the court in their haste to be seen and heard by the king. Erika and Vivian, far more subdued, took up the rear together.

            The young blond led them out of the sitting room and through the cool halls of the palace. The party of troubadour hopefuls were led up to the imposing doors of the throng room. Guards stood on either side, armored and armed, ready to lay down their lives to protect their king. They opened the doors for the entourage, and they fed into the throne room.

            The space stole Erika’s breath immediately. The ceiling towered overhead, and a massive chandelier hung above the room. A large rose window dominated the far wall, letting in a circle of painted sunlight that perfectly depicted its delicate images on the floor. Between the chandelier, the sconces on the walls, and the impressive window, the room was brilliantly lit. A long rug stretched down the hall, from the door to the dais the Iron King’s throne stood upon. Tapestries hung on the walls, bright and masterful in their work.

            Erika admired the room on the entire walk up to the throne. There, she fell into line with the others, Vivian still at her side. Both women huddled together. Erika wondered if Vivian felt as displaced as she did.

            The Iron King sat on his throne, elevated slightly above them. He was a picture of elegance and leadership, seated comfortably in the imposing throne. The dark wood of the throne offset the pale fabric of his raiment. A sword hung at his hip, the hilt and sheath gilded and bejeweled. Rings adorned both his hands, though on the left he wore only his royal seal. His crown rested on his head, gleaming in the sunlight. A long black cape rested upon his shoulders, spilling down onto the ground to pool at his feet.

            He was young, and that of all things was what surprised Erika the most. His hair was full but short, a dark color trapped somewhere between brunet and blond. His eyes were clear, sharp, stormy blue depths brimming with intelligence. His mouth was thin, and was neither cruel nor kind. His hands bore a weathered look that surprised Erika, and she found herself wondering how much time he spent with his sword.

            “Welcome to the palace,” the Iron King spoke. His voice resonated with an easy clarity. He was comfortable in his throne, in his power. He was a king, through and through. “You all know why you are here; I require a new troubadour, and you all desire the position.” His blue eyes swept over the assemblage, taking swift stock of them. “Some of you may have unfair advantages of prior training. As such, this contest is based on talent and passion, not skill. I shall choose the singer whose voice and playing I enjoy the most.

            “The contest shall consist of stages. First, we shall test your playing on a variety of instruments that a troubadour would be expected to use; ten shall be chosen of this group to proceed. These will sing a specific song of my choosing, and I shall choose five to proceed. These shall sing another, more difficult song, for the entirety of my court, and from here only two shall proceed. These two shall choose a song of their own, and shall sing again for myself and my court; they must show not only talent, but passion as well, and be able to make their audience feel emotion.”

            The Iron King fell silent, raking another glance over the crowd. “Do you find this to be a fair contest?”

            A subdued murmur of ascent rose from the crowd. The King regarded them a moment longer, as if he could somehow test whether or not their true opinions were voiced. He nodded once before rising. “Then that shall be the contest. You shall be summoned as you were for today when I am ready for you. I wish all of you well in this contest. You are dismissed.”

            Erika compliantly went with the other contestants. She looked back over her shoulder for a final glimpse into the throne room before the doors shut behind them all. Her final glimpse was of the Iron King, still and reposed in his throne, sitting in the midst of the sunlit room.

            Erika thought she had seen few things more beautiful than that sight.


	10. Sparking Passions

            Two days after her meeting with the Iron King, Erika was startled to find the market square subdued to a quiet that easily allowed discussion with the various venders. More surprising was the hesitance of anyone to talk. Normally, in Erika’s experience, people gossiped more than anything else in the market, with friends and strangers alike. The quiet was unnerving. Erika rushed through her shopping, nearly desperate to leave the space and go home where things would be normal.

            She was just paying for her last few things and tucking them into her basket when the sound of clattering armor echoed through the quiet space. Erika started, turning her head towards the sound to try and see what was happening. A pair of tall men, dressed in gleaming armor, marched into the marketplace. The one to the right had a long red cape draping off his shoulders. His face was dark and rugged, his dark hair close cut and scruff shading his jaw and cheek. The cape, and the fine armor he wore and the grand sword at his hip, marked him as one of the iron guard. The iron guard were the elite knights that the king kept close. They served the king directly, and rode with him when he left the safety of his palace. Their duty was to protect their king, at the cost of their own life.

            The guard stopped, and pushed a far shorter figure forward. Erika saw a flash of fiery red, and felt a gasp of surprise slip from her throat. It was Vendetta, of all people, being led by some of the knights. Whatever had gotten her mixed in directly with them couldn’t be anything good.

            The guard and his companion turned away from Vendetta and left the way they had come. Erika scrambled to finish her own business. As soon as she could, she rushed over to Vendetta. Dull whisperings had risen around the area, but Erika didn’t care about their gossip.

            She skidded to a halt near her friend. Vendetta was staring off down the street after the two knights. Anger was evident in the tight set of her jaw. Erika moved a bit closer, lighting a gentle touch to her friend’s arm.

            Vendetta turned her head. Her visible eye burned with green fire. Her chest was heaving with heavy, deep breaths, clear to see even under her loose shirt. A smattering of small, red flecks stained the drooping collar that slumped off her shoulders. Anger rolled off her in waves that Erika was sure would have been palpable even to people without the ability to sense emotions. “I hate them,” she gritted out, her teeth still clenched tight.

            “What happened?” Erika whispered. “Are you all right? Are you in trouble?”

            Vendetta shook her head slightly. She tapped Erika’s elbow, indicating her to follow, before turning away and starting down a different street. Erika scampered after her.

            Vendetta walked fast, moving easily in her trousers. Erika had to scramble in her dress, making sure to lift the hem so her rapid steps would not catch the fabric and cause her to trip. She was relieved when Vendetta led the way up to her home. The door slammed open before them. Both women hurried inside, and the door slammed shut just behind Erika.

            “Can we talk now?” Erika asked, a bit of trepidation creeping into her voice.

            Vendetta did not reply. Instead she stormed up the staircase. Like the rest of the house, it was rundown, though stable enough. Vendetta had worked on them, repairing them so they would be sturdier. Erika climbed after her as quickly as she could.

            “Bronwyn!” she called after her. “Please! Will you just tell me what happened?”

            “That bastahd is wot happened!” Vendetta finally snapped back in reply. She crossed the upstairs room and threw herself down on the edge of the bed. Her face had flushed to a livid shade of red. Erika crept closer to her, a bit hesitant. She knew her friend well enough; her temper could be dangerous if she let it go out of hand, and Vendetta was close to that line.

            “You know how the market gets during the middle of the day,” Vendetta spat out. “Busy as hell. And women bring their kids all the time, righ’? Well the miller’s wife came in yesterday. How many kids have they got anyway, ten? It’s ridiculous! But tha’s beside the poin’; one of the young girls slipped away but a moment. And there were members of the iron guard in the market.”

            Erika felt her stomach slither towards the floor.

            “And would you guess wot they did to her?” Vendetta spat out, now through gritted teeth. “They were pushin’ her around, pullin’ at her hair and her dress, grabbin’ at her until she started cryin’. And they were leerin’ and talkin’ like she wasn’ there, like the wanted to pin her down and have her righ’ _there_ –”

            “I get it,” Erika whispered. The picture was all too easy to paint in her head. How many times had she narrowly escaped the same treatment from the drunken patrons of the tavern? And what of the times she wasn’t quite quick enough – like with William so recently? A young girl didn’t deserve to go through something so awful.

            Vendetta’s color had fallen, if only slightly. When she spoke again, her accent was even thicker than before, a common result of her anger. “They finally pushed her so damn hard she jus’ fell righ’ ovah. I couldn’ stand seein’ it anothah second. So I ran in, grabbed her and shipped her back to her mum. Then one of those thick-‘eaded blokes grabbed at _me_ , and things got messy fast.”

            “Bronwyn–”

            “Better I get thrown in jail for the night than that poor girl have to be treated like that!” Vendetta’s hands were balled into fists. “We shouldn’ have to be afraid that we’ll be treated like tha’ by the king’s own favorite guard! He should give a damn!”

            Erika grimaced faintly. She agreed; it was wrong that the elite knights could get away with treating a girl – a _child_ – like nothing more than a little harlot.

            There had been a day when it wasn’t so. There had been a day when the rule of the Iron King was one with promises of goodness, promises of being better than Shaw. There had been hope that a good king had come to the throne. But his bloody rise was a mere foreshadowing of his bloody rule. The knights were still dispatched at borders, particularly with the snowy northern kingdom of Aleria, Genosha’s oldest enemy. The echoes of the war still rang out. The war had shattered whatever goodness had still been in the Iron King’s heart.

            “I understand,” Erika said slowly. “And I agree. But what can we do?” One dark brow arched on her pale face. “Rebel?”

            Vendetta’s eyes flashed, too bright and too hungry. The spark died out almost immediately, followed by a shake of her head. “No rebellion. But someone needs to do something.”

            Erika narrowed her eyes faintly. Something about her friend’s words didn’t taste right, as if a half-covered lie hung from her lips. Erika feared there was such a lie, and feared what danger it could bring to her friend, and to her home.


	11. The Guard

            “We need mushrooms, turnips, cabbages, potatoes, and whatever meats you can find,” Marie said as she pressed a bag of coins into Erika’s hand.  She plucked gently at the dark braid of hair that hung over Erika’s shoulder.  “Don’t be too long.  There’s still much to do before business begins tonight.  And be safe, as always.”

            “I know,” Erika replied; it was the same things her mother always said before sending her off into market.  With a quick kiss to her mother’s cheek, Erika hurried outside into the rising warmth that indicated summer was on the way.

            The few days since her last trip had been light and easy, filled with her own daydreaming and practicing her playing on her family instruments.  A message had been sent out to her, and assumedly the other competitors, informing them that the contest would be continued tomorrow.  Erika could hardly contain her nervous excitement.  The fair weather did not help; the warmer days made her feel a bit more energetic, a bit more alive.

            The morning was a touch cool still, which made the morning far more enjoyable than the afternoon surely would be.  Erika tugged the long sleeves of her dark green dress down a bit as she started her way down the streets.  She had only made her first turn before Vendetta appeared at her side without a word.  Erika did not question it; her friend had a way of being unnervingly quiet.  Nor did she question her friend’s appearance.  Though her clothes were entirely normal, she had bedecked herself in a far wider array of blades than normal.  Holsters filled with tiny blades ringed her thighs, and a belt heavy with longer daggers hung from her hips.  Two large blades were strapped to her back, the harness looping over her shoulders, straps crossing over her chest and between and under her breasts.  Erika pitied any man who would be foolish enough to admire how the harness enhanced the appearance of her friend’s bust.

            “There’s some news about the southernah,” Vendetta drawled after a moment.  “It’s not much of a repor’, but I’ll tell you wot I can.”

            “Go ahead,” Erika replied, slinging her basket more comfortably into the crook of her arm.  “What’s he been up to?”

            “He’s been spotted by the woods again.  No goin’ in, this time.  Just paced back an’ forth for a while.  Apparently he looked rathah agitated.  I’d guess whatevah he was lookin’ or waitin’ for didn’ show.”

            “What’s out in the woods?” Erika asked slowly.

            “Besides the woodsman you’ve met?  Nothin’, far as I know.”  Vendetta shrugged a bit, the loose material of her shirt slipping down.  “I guess tha’ would indicate they know each othah.  But given he’s been into the woods before, it would suggest he knows where the woodsman lives.”

            “It is peculiar,” Erika hummed.  “Do you really think they might know each other?”

            “I’d say it’s likely.  But I think it’s abou’ time you give this up, Erika.  The trail isn’ getting’ any more interesting.”

            “That’s probably for the best, no?  It means nothing strange is happening.  And that means we’re all safe.”

            Vendetta walked with her to the market, though neither spoke much the rest of the way.  Erika led the way through the crowds in the market, finding the few items on her lists.  But she could feel her friend’s tension simmering under the surface.  Only after she had tucked the last package of her meat into her basket did Vendetta speak again.  She pressed up close to her friend, her mouth just shy of touching her ear.

            “They’re dangerous, Erika,” Vendetta hissed out.  “Whatevah they’re gettin’ into, be smart, and stay outta it.”

            “You sound sure that something will happen,” Erika replied.  “Do you know something you aren’t telling me?”

            “I’m looking out for you,” Vendetta replied as she brushed past her.  “You should be grateful of that.”

            “And I am,” Erika replied, “But what if something does happen?  What if it could be stopped by telling someone about this strange southerner?”

            “Nothin’s happenin’ righ’ now,” Vendetta replied, her voice turning just a bit stony.  “Even if there were, who would you tell?  The Iron King himself?  You may be the favorite for his silly contest, but that doesn’ mean he’ll listen to a common girl like you.”

            Erika shook her head as she halted.  “It doesn’t matter.  But I don’t want to see bloodshed in this city ever again.  You weren’t here when his reign began, when I was just a girl.  All the dead soldiers brought home, all the people who wanted to fight the king in their hatred of a war he didn’t even start . . .  I don’t think I can stand to see that again.”

            “You don’t know the king,” Vendetta protested, standing beside her friend.  “He’s a monstah.  A bloodthirsty _monstah_.”

            “And you do know him?” Erika snapped back.  “Just when would you have met and gotten to know him?”

            Vendetta’s face flushed, her hands curling at her sides.  “Erika, please–”

            Before she could say anything else, a shriek cut through the air.  Erika’s eyes widened, and Bronwyn’s face paled again.  The two women exchanged a quick glance, their brief quarrel immediately forgotten.  Another outcry wrenched their heads in the direction of the sound.  Erika groaned, pressing a hand to her suddenly churning stomach as a wave of fright washed over her.  Vendetta bolted in the direction of the scream before Erika could even think to tell her to wait.

            Erika hesitated, for a matter of seconds, though they felt like ages.  Vendetta was more than capable of handling herself, surely; she had seen the redhead take on five men at once and come out having hardly broken a sweat.  But what if she did get in trouble?  As much as she wanted to forget this, forget everything, she knew she couldn’t possibly leave her friend alone in complete danger.

            Erika clutched her basket close, and turned in the direction everyone else was running from.  It was hard for her slight frame to push past the shying crowd, but she was too stubborn to give up.  As the crowd began to thin, she heard what could only be called a yowl, followed by a crashing of splintering wood.  Then a woman cried out: “She saved me!  God bless her, she saved me!”

            The people pressed more tightly together.  Erika grit her teeth, shouldering through.  She staggered forward when the crowd cleared, nearly falling to the ground at her sudden freedom.  She caught herself, eyes sweeping the scene wildly.

            Vendetta was sitting on the lip of the fountain, relaxed and at ease.  She was studying the nails of her right hand.  Well across from her was a pile of broken wood and scattered fruits.  A man was clawing his way free of the debris

            Sunlight glinted off a single large arm plated in gleaming armor, dazzling Erika’s eyes into momentary blindness.  The arm was attached to a tall, broad man – the same iron guard who had escorted Vendetta from her cell and back to the market.  He was off duty now, most of his armor discarded; yet his one arm remained covered, a symbol of his status as much as his long, crimson cloak and the sword he wore.  His face had a dark anger to it.  He rose to his full height; next to him, Bronwyn would look impossibly small and fragile.  As the iron guard stalked back over towards Bronwyn, Erika saw that his fingers bore talons in the place of fingernails.

            “You’re gonna regret that, girlie,” the guard snarled.

            “Actually,” Vendetta all but drawled as she raised her gaze to him, “you’re the one who’s goin’ to regre’.”  A wide array of knives, varying from no more than an inch to half a foot in length, sprang up in a semicircle before her.  Vendetta stood, grabbing the largest two blades – more like _swords_ , with an odd curvature to the ends, heavily bound on the hilt.  Vendetta pointed one of them at the guard’s chest, a reckless smile curving her lips.  “Come on, you big, ugly cat.  Let’s have a go.”

            The guard flung forward, red cloak flying out behind him and sunlight lancing off his armor.  Vendetta held her ground, blades coalescing into a protective ring around her.  She waited until the guard was nearly on top of her, and then leapt straight up, impossibly fast and impossibly high.  She vaulted neatly over his head, and as the guard turned towards her, one sword lashed out from the ring of blades and swiped down his cheek.  The guard hissed, and blood sprayed out.  The guard whirled about, swiping at Vendetta before she had even landed.  Yet somehow she bent, her whole torso horizontal to the ground, swinging under his arm.  One small blade shot out of the ring, up into the guard’s hand.  This time he roared, ripping the blade out and hurling it back at her.  But the dagger just took its place back in the circle, and Vendetta _laughed_.

            It seemed to be a mistake.  The guard lunged out again, and though Vendetta blocked, his other taloned hand swung out.  Vendetta flinched away, but not far enough.  A single claw cut through her loose sleeve, and must have bitten into her skin because she hissed as a red flower began to blossom against the white fabric.  Vendetta’s knives lashed out, five of them together, cutting wilding at every possibly opening.  His wounds had no affect on him, and Erika realized with a shock that there was no longer any cut on his cheek.  He was healing, somehow, from every wound in only seconds.

            Vendetta couldn’t possibly win a fight like this.

            Erika threw a wild look around.  Everyone seemed to have fled the scene; no one wanted to be caught up in trouble with an iron guard.  The three of them were alone, which only sent another spike of fear through Erika.  She didn’t give herself time to think on her sudden decision as she set down her basket, pushing it aside so it would hopefully be safe; she simply clapped her hands over her ears, drew in a deep and tremulous breath, and screamed.

            It was no normal scream.  Supernatural in pitch and volume, Erika felt the pain of the sound even in her own covered ears.  Glass jars of preserves in a nearby cart shattered.  The force of the scream drove Erika to her knees, and still she screamed.

            The guard buckled first, yowling and writhing.  Vendetta staggered, covering her ears; her ring of blades began to spin and wobble drunkenly.  Glass windows in front of Erika shivered in their frames, fighting against the vibrations of her voice.

            Erika buckled forward onto her hands, the scream cutting off as suddenly as it was born.  Her ears were ringing, her head spinning.  Her throat felt raw and burning, and she brought a hand to curl around the pale column of flesh weakly.

            Past the ringing in her ears, she failed to hear the guard stagger to his feat and over to her.  By the time she saw his heavy boots in front of her, it was too late.  A strong hand grabbed her by the braid and yanked her up, forcing her to kneel on her knees; she gave a tiny cry that she could just make out with her quickly returning hearing.  The guard’s other hand caught her by the jaw before she could try to pull free.  The tips of his talons pressed lightly into her skin, forming shallow dents.

            “You stupid, tiny bitch,” he snarled out.  Erika saw with a shock that he bore sharp canines that looked like they should have been in the mouth of a wild beast, not a man.  His hand stroked down from her jaw to her neck, and there it wrapped around.  “Didn’t your parents teach you not to interfere?” he growled, his fingers tightening slowly around her throat.

            Erika’s eyes widened, bulged out.  She brought up her own small hands, clawing her nails over the back of his hand, grappling at him to try and peel his grip off her.  She felt her throat being constricted, air slowly becoming harder to draw in.

            There was a jerk at her throat, and suddenly she was dangling in the air, higher than the guard.  She kicked out at him, writhing and squirming as she still clawed at him.  “Please,” she choked out, barely audible.

            “I should rip your throat out,” he spat at her.  His lips curled back from his teeth, and a strangled sop spilled out of Erika.

            “No!”  Vendetta was suddenly beating at his back.  “Leave her out of this, Victor!  Put her down, you bastahd, before you–”

            The guard laughed, shoving Vendetta away.  The redhead fell to the ground, but was already gathering herself up again.  The guard, Victor, snarled, and kicked her in the ribs.  Vendetta gave a barking cry as she crumpled again, wheezing weakly.

            “Before what?  I kill her?” he sneered.  “Ain’t that the point of chokin’ someone?”  He looked back up at Erika, pulling her down closer to him; her feet still dangled, but her kicks were growing feebler, her energy turning more towards trying to suck in desperate breaths.  “A damn shame,” Victor drawled.  Erika flinched from his breath, trying in vain to turn her head away.  “I hear you’ve got a hell of a pretty voice.  A songbird like you could’ve made a pretty pet.”

            Erika tried to plead for him to let her go, but she lacked the breath.  The edges of her vision began to blur and darken.  She beat weakly at his wrist, tears spilling from her eyes.

            Victor laughed, and suddenly loosened his hand.  Erika sucked in a harsh breath, descending into a fit of hard coughs.  She didn’t care that Victor pulled her closer, or that he all but nuzzled at the side of her face as his lips brushed by her ear.  She could breathe again; that was all that mattered.

            “Be glad his majesty holds you in favor for his silly competition,” Victor hissed.  “Otherwise, we’d be havin’ a very different ending.”

            His hand uncurled from Erika’s throat without warning.  She fell at his feet, still drinking in deep breaths and coughing.  The guard turned, the edge of his red cloak brushing over Erika’s face.  And then he was walking away . . . towards Vendetta.  Erika made a tiny sound, trying to gather her feet under her.  But they refused to cooperate.

            Vendetta staggered to her feet, a hand a pressed to her kicked side, her face pale and drawn.  Her lip was split, the red smear of blood stark against her skin.  Victor bent down towards her.  Erika only heard what sounded like a growl, but the way Vendetta flinched indicated that it was words he spoke to her, and only for her ears to hear.  Vendetta did not reply, only glared up at him from under her rumpled hair.  After a tense moment, the guard moved past her, his armored shouldered hitting against Vendetta and making her stagger.

            Neither girl moved until Victor had turned down a street and vanished from view.  Vendetta rushed over to Erika as soon as they were truly alone, while Erika struggled back to her feet.  Vendetta grabbed her by the arms and all but hauled her to her feet.

            “Wot were you thinkin’?” Vendetta hissed.  She shook Erika, and she took it limply.  “He could’ve killed you!”

            “And he could have killed you first,” Erika protested.  She cringed as the words chafed at her throat.  She raised a hand to her throat, and her cringe turned into a wince as her fingers brushed now tender skin.  “I couldn’t just stand by and watch you get hurt.”

            “I would’ve been fine,” Vendetta replied.  Her eyes darkened as they lighted on her friend’s throat.  “But you aren’.  Christ, tha’s a nasty bruise.”

            “Just my luck,” Erika said dryly.  She reached up and unbraided her hair, fluffing out the curls and pulling the locks over either shoulder.  The thick array of curls spread out, nearly touching her neck.  So long as she did not tilt her chin up too far, the bruising would be more or less concealed.  “What happened has happened,” Erika said with a sigh as she returned to her basket and picked it up.  She examined the contents quickly, relieved to see everything was all right.  “Now, I need to go find some mushrooms.  I figure I’ll have to go the forest and pick some myself.  I could use a hand, if you don’t mind helping.”

            Vendetta made a slight sound of consent.  Erika looked over her shoulder, watching as Vendetta waved her hand.  Her discarded blades rose up and flew gently over to her to sheathe themselves in their various places.  The two largest blades crossed over her back, wrapped hilts rising over her shoulders.

            For a moment, Erika wanted to ask where she had gotten the twin blades.  Something about them seemed . . . wrong.  They were swords, she realized; small swords, but there was no getting around the truth of their identity.  And they looked so well crafted, not like the cheaper knives and daggers that decorated every other part of Vendetta’s person.

            But Erika didn’t ask.  She only turned back towards the west, towards the woods, and began to walk, trusting that Vendetta would follow.

***

            Erika stopped at home long enough to empty her basket before going out to the woods.  Vendetta walked at her side, far more quiet and brooding than she had been before their encounter with the guard.  Erika did not stray far into the woods, merely dipping into the cooler depths.  Both paid attention to the ground, pausing now and then when they found a good mushroom to pluck it and put it in the basket.

            “Who was he?” Erika finally asked as she bent to collect another mushroom.  “The guard?  I’ve seen him before.”

            Vendetta sighed.  For a moment Erika was sure she wouldn’t answer.  But Vendetta began to speak, slowly.

            “Victor Creed.  He’s one of the highes’ of the iron guards.  He’s said to be brave, fearless, strong, and practically unstoppable.  As you migh’ have noticed, he heals fast.  He uses his claws almost as much as his sword.  He’s brutal, a take no prisoners type.  He’s barely bettah than an animal.  Not to mention he’s rude and conceited and uncouth.”

            “You sound awfully familiar with him,” Erika observed.

            Vendetta shrugged dismissively.  “We’ve had some run ins before.  Neithah of us like the othah.”  Vendetta waved a hand at a mushroom ahead of them, and it rose up and floated delicately to the basket.

            “I think that’s enough,” Erika said, hooking the basket comfortably at the crook of her arm.  “I suppose we can grab any more we see on the way ba-”

            Vendetta suddenly grabbed Erika by the arm.  Erika froze for a second before turning her head and giving her friend a bewildered look.  Vendetta didn’t seem to notice; she was poised and alert, one hand held up in a gesture that Erika understood asked for her stillness and silence.

            After a brief quiet, there was a sudden odd crackling sound; it reminded her of the sound logs made in the fireplace when they erupted a small stream of sparks.  The pair exchanged a wary glance before starting to creep forward.  Feeling incredibly uneasy, Erika took hold of one of her friend’s hands.

            Vendetta took the lead, guiding Erika as quietly as she could through the woods.  The sparking sound came again, closer, and Vendetta adjusted their path.  Erika could feel her heart beating in her chest, slow and heavy.  What could possibly make such a strange sound?

            The sound came at almost regular intervals, and by the time Vendetta came to a halt behind a large tree, the sound was very close.  Vendetta shifted to peer around the tree, and Erika followed suit cautiously.  She almost gasped aloud at the sight before them.

            It was the southerner.  Remy LeBeau sat silent and brooding on a fallen tree.  He had a fallen leaf in his hand, his fingers grasping the stem almost delicately.  He twirled it one direction, then the other, and back again, eyes fixed on the leaf.  His brow was furrowed, strange eyes somehow appearing darker than Erika remembered.  His handsome mouth bore the slightest hint of a frown.

            The leaf started to glow, faintly at first, but soon gathering into a bright magenta color that was nearly white in the center.  Remy tossed the leaf into the air, where it exploded in a burst of similar colored sparks, producing the sound that the two women had been hearing.  Remy bent over, hands running through the leaves on the ground.  After a moment, he dashed his hand through the leaves with an aggravated sigh, and launched to his feet.  He twisted at his spine, first to the right and then the left before straightening.  He muttered something between his teeth, scuffing a boot at the ground, before striking off deeper into the woods.

            Both women ducked back behind the tree, only to turn and watch the southerner march away, his long cloak rippling out behind him.  After he was out of whispered earshot, the two bent their heads together.

            “Where do you think he’s going?” Erika asked as she darted another glance after Remy.

            “To the woodsman if I had to guess,” Vendetta replied, her tone grim.  “I think, maybe, I should follow.  But this isn’ safe for you.  If we’re caugh’, you can’ hold your own–”

            “I’m coming with you whether you like it or not,” Erika hissed back.  “I want to know what he’s doing here, and if this is my chance to find out, I’m taking it.  If anything happens, I’ll run.”

            Vendetta rolled her eyes and sighed.  “Oh, all righ’.  Come on, before we lose him.”


	12. Into the Woods

            The southerner led the two women deep into the woods.  Erika was certain it was solely due to Vendetta that he never caught sight of them, but she was no fool; he was tense, just a bit uneasy.  He was well aware he was being followed, and though he clearly did not feel threatened, he moved with utmost haste through the undergrowth.  At times he paused, touching the trunks of the trees and looking up towards the sun to orient himself again.

            Eventually they stumbled upon a modest river, likely the same that cut out of the woods and into the north part of the city.  The southerner began to follow it, moving quicker now with sure steps.  Vendetta hung further back, clearly more confident that they could follow him easily with the river as their guide.  Erika could only trust her friend’s abilities.

            The river swept in a gentle bend, and Vendetta seemed to quicken her pace.  The two women hurried around the bend, and stopped short at the sight of a small cabin built of weathered wood set off the river.  The door was just clapping shut.  Vendetta rushed forward at a subdued run; Erika followed slower, not wanting to drop any of the mushrooms she had picked.  Vendetta led her around the cabin, and soon crouched under a window on the left side of the small building; it was opened fully, and Erika could easily have fit through it.  Erika knelt on the far side, farther from the river, while Vendetta kept closer to the front of the small home.

            “-followed most of de way here,” the southerner was saying as they ducked down.  “Never saw anyone.  Whoever it was knows enough ta be a problem.”

            There was a low growling sound that drew a chilled feeling through Erika’s blood.  She could feel Vendetta tensing beside her, and was unsurprised when she drew out a dagger from the sheathe on one thigh.

            “He normally dat friendly?” the southerner drawled.

            “Hush.”  Erika felt something in her chest lurch at the gruff voice that replied.  She wasn’t surprised to hear the woodsman, but for it to be confirmed that the southerner had come to see him still made something inside her feel funny.

            “Outside,” the woodsman said softly.  The barest sound of steps reached Erika’s ears.  She cringed, starting to huddle against the wall.  Vendetta pressed her back further, giving her a sharp look that clearly was made to say ‘stay put’.

            The redhead stood slowly, her head turned around the corner.  The door swung open with a soft creaking.  Silence followed, and Erika could watch Vendetta visibly coiling with tension.  She raised her blade up, holding it ready for any sort of attack.

            The briefest flash of movement at the corner of the cabin had Vendetta lunging.  Before she could move far, a hand shot out of the window.  Erika gasped as Vendetta was yanked backwards, her body slamming up against the wall under the window, her knife knocked from her grip.  Vendetta snarled, clawing at the strong arm that rested heavy by her throat.

            Erika shoved herself to her feet just as the southerner rounded the corner.  She stepped back, holding up a hand between them.  “Please, don’t,” she whispered.  “We’re not doing any harm-”

            “You’re spying on me,” Remy said.  Erika stopped, confused by the slight smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.  “Don’ try denyin’ it, mademoiselle; you wouldn’ be dis far out here if ya weren’t followin’ me.  An’ you can let de redhead go, Logan; I doubt she’ll bite.”

            “You’re sure of that?” Logan replied, something close to a growl in his voice.  Erika glanced over to him, drawing back slightly at the darkness in his eyes.  Something about the way he held Vendetta made her feel uneasy, and clearly her friend felt even worse in the situation.  She was pale and drawn, her eyes fixed warily on Remy.

            “I am,” Remy replied, crossing his arms over his chest.  “She ain’t a threat.”

            “You know who she is,” Logan hissed back through clenched teeth.  Vendetta flinched under him, lips curling in a grimace.

            “I know who she was,” Remy drawled, running a lazy look up and down her body.  There was something akin to respect in his strangely colored eyes.  “But from what I know, the Hand would like ta leave dat all in de past.”

            “Let us go,” Vendetta hissed.  “This wasn’ my idea, I’m just making sure my friend doesn’t get lost out in these damn woods.”

            Erika made an aborted sound, face turning hot at the words.  Logan’s eyes finally flicked over to her, and her blushing only deepened as she averted her eyes.  Looking at Remy was little better; there was a worry in his expression that made Erika’s stomach twist into knots.

            “Told ya ta be careful,” Remy rasped.  “Ya don’ know what you’re gettin’ yourself into, Erika.  Ya shoulda left dis alone.”

            Erika raised her head, doing her best to steadily meet his gaze.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.  “But you came to my home, you brought this to my door.  What am I supposed to do?  Ignore everything and hope it doesn’t go badly?  I remember the war,” she said, her voice cracking slightly.  “I remember the fear.  I don’t want that again!  I want everything to stay all right!”

            Remy shook his head solemnly, forlornly.  “Nothing ever does.  I’m sorry, Erika.  Things will be better when this is over.”

            Erika tilted her head back, not wanting to look at any of them in that precise moment.  “I’m ready to go home,” she said softly.

            “Wait.”  Logan’s voice, terse and tight.  Erika lowered her head, frowning at him as he pushed Vendetta aside.  “Your neck,” he said, inclining his head a little towards her.  “What happened?”

            Erika brought a hand to the bruised skin, wincing slightly at the brush of her fingers.  The bruises had turned tender and aching.  “One of the guards,” she muttered, fussing with her hair to try and hide the bruises better.

            Logan’s expression darkened a bit.  “Which one.”

            Erika’s mouth ran dry.  His voice was so hard, so cold, so unlike the man she had seen him to be so far.

            “Victor Creed,” Vendetta supplied for her.  “What othah guard is nasty enough to do somethin’ like tha’?”

            “Come here,” Logan said, his voice gentling at least a little.  “I’ve got a few things around here that can help, at least a bit.”

            Erika blinked at him for a moment.  She shot a brief glance to Vendetta, but seeing no visible reaction on her friend’s face, she turned back to Logan to nod in agreement.

            “Migh’ as well all go in,” Remy drawled.  He nodded his head towards the other side of the cabin before taking the lead to the door.  Erika and Vendetta exchanged a lingering glance; but the redhead shrugged, and simply followed him, and Erika followed her.

***

            “If it hurts, just tell me,” Logan murmured.  His fingertips, slicked in a pale yellow oil, touched lightly against her bruised flesh.  Erika tightened her jaw a little, shifting her eyes along the ceiling.  He started to massage at the skin, his touch staying light so as not to bring her any chance of pain.  Erika took a long breath, the sweet, earthy smell of the oil tickling her nose.

            A damp cold touched against her hands.  Erika lowered her gaze, humming softly.  She smiled, rolling her hand over to let the wolf sniff at her hand.  The wolf snuffled at her, then nudged her hand again.  Erika acquiesced, resting her head on the top of his soft head to stroke slowly.

            “He knows not t’bite,” Logan said, a hint of laughter in his voice.  “You don’t have t’worry about him.”

            “Does he have a name?” Erika asked.  She let her hand slide around to the side of his neck, scratching behind his ear.  The canine’s thick tail began to wag in response, his head turning as he leaned into the touch.

            “Vardan.”  Logan smoothed out the last traces of the oil before his hand retreated.  “Now, that should help with the pain, and the bruising.  It won’t get rid of it completely, but it’s better’n nothin’.”

            Erika smiled, wishing she didn’t already miss the press of his skin to hers.  “Thank you.  It was very kind of you.”

            “We should be going,” Vendetta cut in, her voice gone sharp.  She had stayed within steps of the door.  The set of her shoulders was tighter than usual, and her pale face was drawn into a scowl that creased the smooth skin between her eyebrows.

            “The Hand is in a rush,” Remy drawled.  “But if ya insist, we can escort de both o’ you safely from de woods.

            “We don’ need your help,” Vendetta growled.  “And don’ call me tha’.”

            Remy’s mouth quirked for the briefest moment before he bowed his head.  “As de lady wishes.  But I do insist on leading you.  De woods are deep, it’s easy to get lost.”

            “That would be very kind of you,” Erika cut in, shooting a brief glare to her friend.  “I, at least, don’t know how to navigate the woods as well as some people.”

            Logan made a soft sound rather like a laugh as he stood up.  “I can’t let you go wanderin’ around the woods lost again without coming to the rescue, so may as well save the trouble o’ trackin’ you down.”

            Erika rolled her eyes, giving Vardan a last scratch before she stood up, hooking her basket in the crook of her elbow again.  “That’s very kind of you both.  We appreciate it.”  Vendetta grumbled inaudibly behind her, but Erika decided to ignore it, at least for the meantime.  Erika smiled faintly at Logan instead.  “I really should be going before I’m missed by my parents.”

            Logan nodded slightly, his hand twitching slightly in a beckoning gesture as he started to move towards the door.  Erika frowned as she saw Vendetta pull away from him, her eyes shifting to watch him pass her.  The tension between them made no sense to Erika; it was almost as if there were some sort of history between them, but she couldn’t think of how it would have happened.  Vendetta had only been in Einsemar for a few years, and the two had been friends for most of that time.  And what was the Hand?

            Her head swimming, Erika trailed out of the cabin after Logan.  She was barely aware of Remy and Vendetta following her, or when they fell in step and began to talk with surprisingly little conflict.  Erika was too caught up in trying to puzzle out what could possibly be between her best friend and the secretive man in front of her.

            “Thinking hard?”

            Erika blinked a few times, focusing on Logan quickly.  She quickened her step enough to catch up to him.  “Do you know her?”

            Logan snorted softly.  “I know enough, but I don’t know her the way you do.”

            “Then why do you two not get along?”

            “That’s not somethin’ I can tell you.  It’s her past, not mine.”

            Erika sighed, shaking her head slightly.  “I don’t know if she’ll ever tell me.  She never has.”

            “The past can be hard to share,” Logan said slowly.  Erika glanced over, noting the hard set of his jaw and flinty gleam of his eyes.  “But it’s not something that can be forgotten.  It can be a poison, eating away everything inside.  Sometimes saying it gets rid of that.”  Logan threw a quick glance at Vendetta over his shoulder.  “And sometimes it doesn’t.”

            “Logan . . . did she do something bad?”

            He made a soft sound, shrugging his broad shoulders.  “Vardan’s comin’ up on your right.”

            The wolfdog appeared almost as soon as he had spoken, his breathing a soft panting as he fell down into a brisk walk beside Erika.  She smiled down at him, reaching out to scratch the top of his head.  “How did you get him?”

            “Found him out here one day, couple years ago,” Logan drawled in reply.  “Just a few months old, too.  He was close t’the farms outside o’ the city.  Found out a few days later that a farmer had killed a couple wolves, saw the pelts in the market even.  You can tell by the ears if it’s a wolf or a dog; wolves ears are smaller, rounded at the tips.  See how Vardan’s are pointed?  Still, it’s an easy mistake if you don’t know.  Figured the poor boy was gonna starve, so I fed him.  Let him loose after he figured out how t’hunt, but he kept comin’ back.”  Logan shrugged finally.  “I don’t have the heart t’turn him out permanently.  Guess I got kinda attached.”

            Erika smiled to herself, letting her hand stray down the dog’s back, fingers sinking into his thick coat.  “He must make it less lonely to be out here.”

            “Eh.  I get by.  It’s easier out here.”

            Erika looked over at him, just catching his head turning back forward.  “You’re avoiding the subject.  If you’re ever too lonely, you can always swing by the tavern.”

            Logan looked over at her with a sharp turn of his head, one eyebrow cocked at a sharp angle of speculation.  Erika found herself stammering faintly.  She hadn’t been planning to make such an invitation.  Surely it was too bold an offer!

            But that was a smile dancing around his mouth and eyes.  “Might just take you up on that someday.”

            A bright smile bloomed on Erika’s lips.  “If nothing else we have some of the finest drinks in the city, or so I hear.”

            “I’ll be the judge o’ that,” Logan laughed.  He stopped abruptly, leaning back against a tree, arms folding over his chest.  Erika looked forward in bewilderment, surprised to find that they had already reached the edge of the woods.  Had she really been dwelling in thought for so long?

            “Erika,” Logan said softly.  She turned quickly to him, eyeing him with wide open eyes.  Logan motioned her over with a wave of his hand.  Erika crept closer, stopping only a few steps from him.  This close, she could see the way his hazel eyes had darkened, matching the solemn downturn of his mouth.

            “I want you to promise me something,” he said, his voice dropped low to nearly a whisper.  “Can you?”

            “That depends on what you want me to promise,” Erika replied, shifting her weight back slightly.  She found, peculiarly, that she trusted Logan.  She hardly knew him, but it was true.

            “I want you to promise me you’ll be careful,” Logan replied.  “It’s a simple request.  But a royal court can be a dangerous place, especially for someone who’s never been part of one.”

            “I’ll be as careful as I can be,” Erika said, shaking her head slightly, “but Logan . . .”

            He reached out suddenly, one strong hand curling around her arm to pull her closer.  “Just be careful.  Trust no one in that court, or in the contest.”

            Erika squirmed in his grip, her breath just a bit harder to catch.  “I will be, I promise,” she breathed out.

            His hand fell away from her as suddenly as it had come.  Erika swore she could feel her skin tingling under the warm impression of where his touch had been.  She shifted, well aware of his intense gaze locked on her.

            “Can you do me one more favor?” he whispered.  Erika raised her eyes, meeting the somber darkness of his gaze.  After a heartbeat of hesitation, she jerked her head in a brisk nod.

            Logan’s gaze dropped briefly.  She followed his own gaze, her eyes widening as she watched him unfasten a small dagger from his belt.  By all appearances, it was a simple blade.  The sheath was plain, dark leather, the hilt and pommel bearing no decoration.  It appeared small in his strong hands, but Erika had little doubt it would seem much larger in her own grasp.

            “Take this,” Logan rasped.  “If anything were to happen to you . . . it would be good to have a weapon, just to be safe.”

            “Logan,” Erika whispered.  She stopped, raising her free hand to her throat, as if she could quell the faint tremor in her words by a soothing touch of her hand.  “I can’t.  I don’t know the first thing about wielding a blade, of any size-”

            “Any three of us can teach you the basics,” he cut in.

            He held it out closer to her.  Erika wilted further, but she knew she could not escape it.  Logan would persist until she agreed, and it was easier to agree to his terms sooner than later.  She hesitated only a moment longer before she reached forward and took the dagger from his palm.  His skin felt rough under her fingertips, callouses on his palms from axes and hunting knives.  The feel of his skin made tingles arc up Erika’s arm, and she drew her hand back with shy haste.

            In her hand, the dagger seemed more fitting.  Its petite size seemed proper.  Her graceful hand wrapped comfortably around the sheath, the leather smooth and firm under her touch.  She wrapped a hand around the hilt.  The blade pulled free easily with a tug.  The sunlight glinted off the blade brightly.  She did not want to know just how sharp the deadly steel of the blade was.  With a quick push, she sheathed it again.

            “You can just tie it on a belt,” Logan said to her.  “It’s light, won’t hardly weigh it down at all.”

            Erika fumbled with the ties, fastening it securely to the thin belt around her waist.  She let out a shuddering breath, staring at it resting against her hip.  “Do you really think I’ll need it?” she whispered, looking up at Logan with eyes darkened in her sorrow.

            Logan sighed through his nose, eyes flickering down to the blade for a moment.  “I hope not,” he rumbled, “but I’m afraid you might.”

            “Erika!”  Vendetta’s voice cut through the heavy air between them; both Erika and Logan looked over at the redhead.  Her hands were braced on her hips, the scowl evident on her face even across the small distance.

            “I’ll see you again,” Logan said softly.  His hand touched, light as a feather, against the curve of her waist.  Erika hitched in a sharp breath, trembling at the gentle press of his hand urging her away from him.  Her first step away was unsteady, though she quickly regained herself.  By the time she was by Vendetta’s side, Erika felt entirely sure of herself again.  Vendetta waved vaguely towards Remy, though she pointedly ignored his bow.  The two women left, starting across the stretch of grass between the woods and Einsemar.

            Erika looked back once, skimming the shadows for sight of the woodsman.  But there was no trace to be found.


	13. The Contest Begins

            The afternoon was pleasant, with just enough breeze to keep the temperature comfortable.  Inside the royal palace, however, the air was cool.  The young hopeful singers, men and women alike, were led through the halls to the throne room again.  Erika trailed towards the end of the line of contestants, fiddling with the skirt of her dress.  It was one of her finest pieces of clothing, the fabric a rich blue, with the barest trace of silver embroidery at the neckline.  The dagger Logan had given her hung on her belt, bumping against her hip while she walked.  She brushed it occasionally with her fingertips, conscious of its weight and feel.

            Vivian, who walked beside her, on the side she had tied the dagger to, had noticed Erika’s newfound habit.  She glanced down at the blade a few times before finally inquiring about it.  “You didn’t have that last time.  Why now?”

            Erika felt her face go hot.  Her hand pulled away from the blade.  “A friend of mine is worried about me and asked me to wear it.  I suppose it eases their mind, knowing I have something I can at least try to use to protect myself.”

            “I suppose there have been some . . . incidents again recently.”  Vivian’s voice had dropped to a thin whisper.  “There was that man who vanished, and some squabbles with the Iron Guard.  Hopefully it doesn’t escalate any further, though.  If it doesn’t, we might all have to start carrying a little blade around with us.”

            Erika felt her flush sharpen further, though she wasn’t sure why.  Beside her, Vivian giggled, which made Erika’s face go hotter still.

            “Who was this friend who gave it to you?” Vivian asked.

            “He’s just a simple man.”  Erika shrugged, hoping that would dismiss it.  After all, she didn’t really know Logan at all.  He was the woodsman; he was a walking mystery.

            “Is he handsome?”

            Erika smiled before she could stop herself.  “That would depend on your opinion of what a handsome man looks like, I’m sure.”

            “Well tell me what he looks like!”

            She giggled, shaking her head slightly.  “Well he’s taller than me, and quite strong.  He’s tan, dark hair, rather scruffy; he looks rugged.  He has a lovely smile . . .”

            Vivian grinned, the expression knowing and sly.  “You like him!”

            “I don’t know about that,” Erika tried to protest.  “After all, I don’t know him that well yet.  We only met shortly before this contest.”

            “And he’s already worrying about your safety?  And giving you gifts?  I’d say he’s taken by you.”

            Before Erika could reply, they were all ushered into the throne room.  Erika’s eyes widened as she saw that the Iron King was not alone this time.  Four lords and ladies were arranged on either side of his throne.  On the king’s right sat the young lord, Charles Xavier, soft and polished, sapphire eyes bright and full of intelligence.  On his left sat Lady Raven Darkholme, draped in a gown of deepest blue, blonde hair drawn back from her face.  The other three on the right were men; lords McCoy, Summers, and Drake.  The other three on the left were women; the ladies Grey, Frost, and Pryde.  The eight families all represented by their most promising children.

            Erika felt weak looking at them.  They were all beautiful, dressed in fine fabrics, jewels, precious metals.  But fine as they all were, they paled in comparison to their king.

            The Iron King sat with his head raised, gilded crown flashing in the light.  His eyes were sharp daggers as he assessed his competitors as they made a line before the dais.  Again his hands bore heavy rings and his sword hung at his hip.  But today his raiment was brighter, predominately a dark red decorated with gilded damask.  His ebony mantle pooled at his feet.

            At the foot of the dais was an array of beautiful instruments.  The wood of them had been recently polished, their strings restrung.  There were only three: a lute, a fiddle, and a harp.  They were perfect and beautiful and Erika’s fingers itched to touch them.

            Erika followed the example of her fellow contestants and sank into a deep curtsy.  The King was silent for a brief moment, and then bid them to rise.

            “Welcome once more to the palace, my fine competitors,” the King said.  His voice was rich, kinder than Erika remembered.  The slightest hint of a smile even curved his lips.  “Today your trials begin.  You shall play our predetermined song on each instrument to prove you are capable of playing well.  There are many of you, but we shall only be choosing ten of you to advance in the competition.

            “We have music provided for you, though we believe you will recognize the piece.  You may add your own stylistic approach to it, of course.”  The King raised a hand, waving it along the line.  “You will proceed from end to end.  May the finest minstrel win.”

***

            It had been a tedious and nerve-wracking affair, to stand there and watch her competition perform.  Erika did recognize the piece; it was a solely instrumental ballad she had played in the tavern countless times, had played even the night before.  Confident as she was in her abilities, Erika couldn’t hep from feeling anxious.  There were many excellent players in the group, particularly the men and women who were clearly from the higher echelons of society.  But when it was her turn, Erika played with al the passion she ever had.  This was a performance, just like any on her stage at home, and she was comfortable in that setting.

            Waiting in the inner courtyard of the palace while the nobles deliberated was even worse, though.  Nervous chatter flew through the air, and even Vivien contributed to the buzz, talking more at Erika than to her.  Erika was content with that, and more than willing to sit on a stone bench and try to still her still shaking hands.  It was harder than she had expected it would be.  Her nerves were wound far too tight.

            “Erika?  Hello?  Did you hear me?”

            Erika raised her head abruptly, a bashful smile crossing her face.  “Sorry.  I’m just so . . . well, you know.”

            Vivien nodded, blonde hair bobbing around her face.  “I certainly do.  I’m afraid I can’t keep quiet for the same reason.  I just want to talk, talk talk and-  Well, there you have it.”  Vivien laughed weakly.  “I was wondering if I could go to your tavern today, ask about helping your parents?”

            Erika nodded.  She had invited her the last meeting, but her newfound friend had needed to return home.  This afternoon could be different, and hopefully beneficial to everyone.  “Of course. I’m sure my parents will like you.”

            The voices of the other contestants rose sharply into a cacophony of mutters before falling silent.  Erika and Vivien turned their gaze to where everyone was gathering; without a moment more of hesitation, they hurried over to the gathering.

            One of the young lords had entered the courtyard.  He had stood out from the other lords with his blond hair. One his right hand was a large ring bearing an icy blue stone.  He held a slip of paper in hand, surely bearing the names of those who had won the day’s show of talent.

            His eyes skimmed over the courtyard, and seeing that everyone had gathered to him, the young lord smiled and inclined his head to the small assembly.  “I am Lord Drake; the king has sent me to inform you of who has met his expectations.  While you all performed admirably, the king can only choose a select few to proceed.  This list has the names of those who shall not proceed.”  He raised the list and read it off briskly; Erika felt her heart thunder in her chest, her breath baited as she waited with desperate hope to not hear her name.  It was a short list, and Erika relaxed once it passed without her name being called.  She lowered her gaze, avoiding looking at those who had been called.

            “For those who are leaving our contest today, the king has organized gifts for you to show his gratitude,” Drake continued.  “The guards will take you to the throne room to be given them.”

            A quiet fell as the people were led out.  Vivien and Erika crowded close together, hands clasped in joint relief.  Once the door of the courtyard closed, Erika lifted her head again.  The crowd of contests had noticeably thinned.  Those still present wore a range of looks, from relieved, to anxious, to elated even; seemingly unable to help themselves, some began to whisper excitedly.

            Lord Drake cleared his throat, and the silence returned abruptly.  “Congratulations to all of you,” he said, gracing them all with a smile.  “His majesty has requested that, for the next part of the contest, you all shall song O Waly Waly.  I imagine you all know it, but if you do not, I have the words written down.  Of you ten, only five shall proceed.  The contest will continue in a few days; until then, I would recommend practicing quite often.”

***

            Vivien and Erika stepped out of the palace hand in hand.  Both women trembled slightly, huddled close to each other.

            “I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous,” Vivien insisted.  “Especially when he was saying those names!  I felt for certain he’d say mine.”

            “You and me both.”  Erika shuddered.  “I don’t know what I would have done if he did.”

            “I would have wept, I’ve no doubt there,” Vivien said with a firm nod.  “But at least he gave them gifts.  That’s better than nothing.”

            “Yes, but it would certainly be disappointing.”  Erika sighed, tugging gently at Vivien’s hand to urge her forward.  “You still want to head to the tavern, talk to my parents?”

            “Very much so,” the blonde woman replied.  “I’ll admit that today left me feeling quite uncertain.”

            Erika nodded, both in understanding and agreement.  The other competitors were all incredibly talented.  It would be easy to lose to any of them.

            Pushing the thoughts away, Erika led Vivien through the streets.  They left the finery of castle market behind, and to the more simple world of central market.  From there, it was not far to The Forest’s Glen.

            Erika pushed the door open, guiding Vivien inside.  Her father, who was busily wiping down the bar top, looked up quickly.

            “Ah, there you are, little songbird!”  Charles set the cloth aside, quickly moving from behind the bar.  “Did the contest go well today?”

            “It did,” Erika replied.  “For both of us.  Papa, this is Vivien.  She’s one of the other contestants.”

            “Pleased to meet you,” Vivien said, inclining her head in a polite nod.

            “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Vivien,” Charles replied, sketching a playful bow.

            “Vivien was wondering if she could work for us,” Erika supplied.  “I figured, given how busy it tends to be, you might be interested.”

            “Most certainly!” her father beamed.  “We’d love to have an extra pair of hands.  It’s quite simple work; you can either help with cleaning down tables, cooking, or serving, and of course we’ll pay you fairly for your work.  Given you’re in the contest you must be a good singer as well; you could perform on the stage as well.”

            “I’d love to do any of that,” Vivien smiled.  “Wherever you need me most.”

            “Wonderful, then!  When can you start?”

            “Tonight if you need me,” she laughed.  “I’m available every night, unless any of my family may end up unwell, then I’ll be needed at home to help take care of them.”

            “Of course, of course,” Charles hummed, his own smile brilliant.  “You can come whatever nights you’re available.  We’re almost always busy, so we can always use a hand.  You can come by tonight, and we’ll teach you the ropes of what you need to know.”

            Vivien beamed, taking hold of his hands firmly.  “Thank you so very much, sir; this means a lot to me.”

            Charles squeezed her hands in return.  “No need to thank me, Vivien.  We’re glad to have you on board.”

            “Do you need any help finding your way home?” Erika asked.  “I can take you to the central market if it will help.  Or any market, really; I know my way around quite well.”

            “I’ll be all right, thank you,” Vivien replied with a smile.  She hugged Erika quick and tight.  “I hate to take off so abruptly, but my family will want to hear all this wonderful news.  Goodbye, until tonight!”

            Erika bid her newfound friend farewell and saw her out the door.  After securely closing it, she couldn’t help but laugh a little.

            “Full of energy, isn’t she?” her father observed.  “That’ll come in handy here, I’m sure.  She seems quite nice.”

            “She is,” Erika smiled.  “She’s the only other girl who isn’t from the upper classes.  It’s good to have a friend in there.”

            “As long as you don’t let it get in the way of the contest,” he said gently.  “It can be a bit risky, befriending some of the competition.  She seems nice, but I’d keep an eye on her to be safe.”

            Erika nodded rather hesitantly.  She couldn’t imagine Vivien betraying her; the girl was kind, and from what Erika had seen of her personality, she couldn’t imagine that she had a mean bone in her body.  Surely such a sweet girl could never betray her?  Or was Erika letting the girl’s kindness blind her?

            Frowning a bit to herself, she hurried to the stairs and up to her room.  She sank down on her bed, laying down to rest before the night began in earnest, and to wonder about her newly made friend.


	14. Strings of Heart

            “So tha’s it?  Anyone who could pluck out a tune went forward?”

            “You make it sound so easy,” Erika replied, her voice as dry as the rainless weeks that occasionally struck in the height of summer.

            Vendetta shrugged, flicking her hair back from where it fell too far over her face.  “It sounded easy to me.  You played a tune on a few instruments and were done.  How’d they even pick?”

            Erika shrugged as she set a few drinks and bowls of stew on her platter.  “I wasn’t in the room during the judging.  But I did hear everyone play, and the worst players were cast off.  Some just needed more practice, but some . . . some just couldn’t carry a tune.”

            “Seems it’s all based on his majesty’s opinion.”

            “Well it’s his troubadour.  I’d hope he likes their technique.”

            Vendetta shrugged to herself, pausing to take a drink.  In the brief spell of quiet, Erika looked up, scanning the crowd and finding Vivien.  The girl was quick on her feet; even as only her fist night, she was avoiding groping hands with relative success.  Her job for the night was easy; she carried a pitcher of ale and topped off people’s drinks as requested.  Erika was left to take new orders out.

            “Are you worried?  About not winning?”

            Erika turned back to Vendetta as she lifted her tray.  “Not really, no.  Whatever happens is what’s meant to be, I suppose.”

            “And the othah girl?”  Vendetta arched a brow at her.

            “Vivien’s very nice,” Erika sighed, shifting her hold on the platter so she could balance it better.  “We’re friends.  She’s more concerned about having a well-paying job to help her family.  That’s why she’s here.  She’s not spying on me or anything.”

            “Still,” the redhead muttered, “you should be careful, make sure she doesn’t have some daggah behind her back.  Now go on, before that food gets cold.”

            Erika hurried into the throng, almost glad to leave the conversation behind.  It was frustrating, how everyone assumed Vivien would backstab her.  By no means did Erika know her well, but the girl was far too kind and sincere to do anything so traitorous.

            Erika breezed through the people, easily dropping off orders.  It was a night full of regulars, and they knew better than to grab at her.  And by all appearances, they treated Vivien with the same respect; Erika hadn’t seen anyone make any moves towards her, and the few times she and Vivien had spoken during the night had been thoroughly positive discussions.

            Finished with her serving, Erika skipped back to the bar to drop off her tray.  Vivien swept in beside her, shouting over the din for a fresh pitcher.  Though she leaned against the bar to rest and catch her breath, there was a glow about her, a radiance to her smile.  She was enjoying the work.  Erika felt a surge of delight at the realization.

            “The night goes well I take it?” she asked, nudging the blonde with her shoulder.

            Vivien laughed, flicking back stray pieces of hair.  Like Erika, she had braided her hair to put it out of her way for the night, but a large number of strands close to her face were too short.  They had come free and formed a golden halo around her face.  “It’s incredible!” she replied, her voice raised over the din.  “I don’t know the last time I’ve had to run back and forth so much, but it’s enjoyable, really.”

            “You intend to stay on, then?”

            “Well of course!  Fair pay and work that isn’t horrible is more than I could ask for.  I’d be foolish not to!”  A rising of voices made Vivien turn her head to the guests.  Erika looked back, laughing at the raised glasses.  “Well, duty calls again,” Vivien remarked.  She picked up her new pitcher and flounced back into the fray.

            Erika turned around to watch, noting how friendly she already was with everyone.  She really did look happy to be working, much to Erika’s delight.  It was good to help a friend.  Satisfied that Vivien was doing all right, Erika made her way back over to Vendetta.

            The redhead seemed to be in a less brooding mood upon her return.  Her drink had vanished and been replaced with a simple glass of water, as well as a plate of mutton and potatoes that she was nearly finished with.  Erika took a seat beside her, breathing out a bright sigh.  It was incredible that she had the time to sit and relax.

            “You’re so lucky, you know tha’?” Vendetta said as she picked up another bite of food.  “Nice house, a mum tha’ cooks good food, loving parents.  Not everyone has this.”

            “I know,” Erika replied.  Her brow furrowed as she looked over at Vendetta.  It wasn’t like her to bring something up for no reason.

            “I didn’t,” the redhead continued.  “My parents couldn’t keep me, nevah knew why.  Dropped me off at a convent when I was a tyke.  From there . . . well, it got messy.  I couldn’t hide what I am back then.”  She fell into a brooding silence, shoulders hunched forward as she picked at the last few bites on her plate.  Erika could not bring herself to push at her in any way.  Clearly the memories were painful for her.

            The tavern was more quiet than normal, and in the tense lull of their conversation, Erika heard the door open and close.  Erika didn’t turn to see who entered, she was far too intent on her friend.  She could practically feel how close she was to learning more about just who Bronwyn was.

            “I made mistakes,” the redhead said, her voice more quiet than before.  “And I regret them, I really do.  People got hurt, I did bad things.  I can’t stop thinkin’ about it all of a sudden, of how awful I was.” 

            “Bronwyn, no.”  Erika grabbed onto her hand with both of hers, clutching at her.  “Don’t talk like that.  You made mistakes, maybe some bad choices.  Everyone does.  And yes, sometimes people are hurt, but that doesn’t make you a bad person.”

            “You don’t undahstand.”  The redhead twisted her hand free, her head shaking adamantly.  “You don’t, and you nevah will.  I was a monstah back then.  Maybe I still am.”

            Erika started to protest, but Vendetta surged out of her seat.  Her hand shook as she fished out a few coins and dropped them on the counter.  Before Erika could reach out to take her hand, to coax her to stay and calm down a bit, she was walking away.  Erika twisted around in her seat, watching as Vendetta shouldered through the door and vanished into the night.

            A feeling of hopelessness sank onto her shoulders, and she slumped forward.  Her elbows rested heavy on the bar top, her hands cupping the sides of her face.  Her friend’s words and attitude were concerning.  She’d never seen Bronwyn so distraught, and her vague words did nothing to ease Erika’s heart.  She wanted to run after her, to ask if she was all right, anything, but she couldn’t.  She couldn’t just abandon the tavern during the night, no matter how much she wanted to.

            “Hey.”

            Erika started, turning quickly on the stool.  She had to tip her head up to see who had spoken to her, but she recognized the rasp of the voice, the way it sent a shiver down her spine.  Only Logan had that effect on her.

            He stood just a step away, not invading her personal space.  A few lines creased his brow, matching the slight downward tilt of his mouth.  His concern was palpable even past her own mental barricades that were keeping her stress and worry in.  But clearly he was picking up on her feelings somehow.  For the first time, Erika found herself truly wondering what secret abilities he might have tucked up his sleeve.

            “Saw li’l red run out,” he rumbled.  “Noticed you seemed kinda upset about it.  Can I-?”

            “I’m sorry,” Erika blurted out, “this is all just . . . surprising.  You can sit if you want.”

            Logan settled onto the stool beside her, one of his hands resting on the bar.  His fingers tapped absently, as if he weren’t paying attention to them.  “Remy went out after her.  Figured you couldn’t leave yourself, and they get along better than she does with me.”

            “I doubt she’ll talk to him if she wouldn’t even talk to me.”  Erika sighed.  “Still, it does put me at ease.  If nothing else he can make sure she doesn’t get into any trouble.”

            “He will.  He’s a good guy.”  Logan trailed off into quiet, his gaze turned out over the rest of the tavern.  Erika kept glancing at him every few seconds.  She felt a little on edge with him there.  She had suggested he come to the tavern sometime, certainly, but she’d never thought it would actually happen.

            Logan finally looked back at her.  The worried look was gone from his face, but he had turned rather unreadable.  “How’s the contest?”

            “It’s going well,” Erika replied.  “I made it through the first elimination.  The blonde girl pouring drinks is another contestant, Vivien.  She’s nice, and I don’t think she’s going to stab me in the back, but everyone else seems to think she might.”

            “That so?”  Logan looked at the girl for a moment before nodding slightly.  “I gotta agree with you.  She seems too nice t’be the betrayal type.”

            “You . . . do?”

            Logan shrugged, broad shoulders lifting and dropping in a brisk motion.  “Yeah.  I’ve learned how to read people, and I trust my gut.  She looks nice.  But I doubt she’s as good as you.”

            Erika laughed, shaking her head quickly.  “Logan, you haven’t ever heard me sing!  You can’t rightly judge that.”

            “You’re right, I haven’t.  But I’ve heard about you.  Lots o’ people love your singing.  It’s a shame I’ve never had the chance to hear it.”

            Erika narrowed her eyes at him.  She had to fight against the urge to slip into a smile.  “Is this your way of saying you want me to sing?”

            “Maybe.”  His teeth flashed in a brief, radiant grin that reached all the way up to his eyes and set them sparkling.  “Would you?”

            “Maybe,” she echoed, grinning back at him.  “But what if no one else wants to hear me?”

            “I can’t believe they wouldn’t.  Besides, it’s good practice for the contest.”

            She sighed, standing up slowly.  “All right.  But I’m asking Vivien if she wants to join me on the stage.”

            “That’s all right,” Logan grinned, “I bet I’ll know your voice when I hear it.”

            Her cheeks flushed a bright pink before she scampered away to find Vivien.  The blonde was sitting at a table, talking with someone she seemed to already know.  Upon seeing Erika approach, she hurriedly excused herself and bounced up to meet her.

            “I’m sorry,” Vivien blurted, halting before Erika.  “No one needed anything, and my feet were tired, and I’ve sort of befriended this one man I see at the market often-”

            Erika laughed, shaking her head.  “It’s completely all right!  I take breaks and talk with people I know rather often, myself.  I just was, actually, and I’ve been asked to perform for a little bit.  I was wondering if maybe you wanted to join me?  We could practice for the competition, sing O Waly Waly?”

            “Oh, I don’t know . . .”  Vivien bit at her lip slightly, turning to look at the small stage at the far end of the room.  “I’ve never really performed in front of a crowd like this.”

            “All the better reason to do it.”  Erika took hold of her hand with a gentle squeeze.  “I’ll be right beside you.  We’ll sing it as a duet even if that makes you feel better.”

            Vivien took a deep breath.  She stared for a last lingering moment at the stage before looking back to Erika and nodding.  “I’ll do it.”

            Erika beamed, squeezing her hand again before she started to lead her to the stage.  “Just make sure to relax.  Don’t pay too much attention to everyone, and just look towards the back of the room.  I promise you’ll do fine.”

            Vivien clutched her hand as they took to the stage.  Slowly, the crowds fell quiet.  Erika took the harp off of where she had set it against the wall, and quickly made sure it was tuned.  Satisfied with its sound, she strummed out the first few notes.  The hush over the crowd was immediate, everyone’s breath baited in anticipation of the night’s performance.

            Erika met Vivien’s eyes, nodding slightly.  Both women took a breath as one, and together they glided into the song.

_The water is wide I cannot get o'er,_

_And neither have I wings to fly._

_Give me a boat that will carry two,_

_And both shall row, my love and I._

_O, down in the meadows the other day_

_A-gath'ring flowers both fine and gay,_

_A-gath'ring flowers both red and blue;_

_I little thought what love can do._

 

_I leaned my back up against an oak_

_Thinking that he was a trusty tree;_

_But first he bent in and then he broke,_

_And so did my false love to thee_

 

            Their voices, so different, somehow melded together in a perfect way.  Erika’s voice was sweet, high, clear; a poet madly in love would have described her as an angel of the heavenly choir.  Vivien’s voice was lower, just a bit rougher.  The contrasts melted together into a darling melody that enchanted the crowd.  In no time at all, Vivien needed none of the support of Erika’s gaze, and was singing on her own, though still perfectly matched to the tempo Erika set.  Familiar with her stage and crowd, Erika let her gaze wander, her fingers unfailing on the strings as she looked over the crowd.  Her eyes caught on Logan’s, drowning in the full depth of his attention, the clear show of pleasant surprise he bore.  Delighted, Erika sang all the stronger, sang to _Logan_ and only Logan.

_A ship there is, and she sails the seas._

_She's laden deep, as deep can be,_

_But not so deep, as the love I'm in;_

_I know not if I sink or swim._

_O, love is handsome and love is fine,_

_And love's a jewel o while it is new._

_But when it is old, it groweth cold_

_And fades away, like morning dew._

            The last note trailed off into silence, but Erika was barely aware.  She could feel a connection pulsing between her and Logan, like strings had woven between their hearts that connected them across the room.  Erika wondered desperately if he felt it, too, or if she was going mad with secret wants.

            “Erika!  Erika, that was incredible!”

            Vivien’s hand closing on her arm made Erika jerk back to herself.  She felt like she was falling back into her body, collapsing inward.  Settled back solely in her skin, she turned to Vivien.  It was hard to smile when she felt so unnerved, but somehow, she managed.  “I’m glad you liked it.”

            “Liked it?  Oh, I love it!  Do you do this every night?”

            “More or less.  It depends on how busy it is, if people want me to sing . . .”  She trailed off, eyes sliding back to Logan.  He was still watching her, making her skin dance over her bones.  The intensity in his eyes made her hands tremble as she tore her gaze away long enough to set down her harp.

            “Maybe we can do it more often now that we’re both here?  We could do solos, or duets, or one of us could play and the other sing-”

            “Sure, of course.  I’m sorry, I- I need some fresh air-”  Erika threw a brief glance at Logan, only to find him already standing, angled towards the door.  Erika hurried off the stage, her hands still shaking at her sides.  She could feel her parents looking at her, but she could not care at that moment.  She needed space to breath, she needed a bigger space for her and Logan to occupy so the feeling between them wouldn’t choke her.

            The cool night air was a relief.  A light beading of sweat was cooling on her brow.  Erika collapsed onto the bench near the door, leaning back against the wall.  She could hear the excited chatter of the patrons, coming louder as the door swung open briefly before falling muffled again as it clapped shut.  She didn’t need to look over.  That phantom connection was back, throbbing in her chest until her heart beat to its tempo.

            “You all right?”

            The low rasp of Logan’s voice chased a harsh shiver up her back.  Erika jerked away from the wall, turning her head so fast her braid swung over her shoulder.  Logan looked a bit more tense, his shoulders tight, eyes alert and flickering over every inch of her, lingering at–

            “Yes.”  Erika’s voice caught in her throat, making her wince.  “Yes, I just . . .  I don’t know what came over me in there.  I’ve never felt like that.  Like–”

            “Like there was a connection?”

            Erika shivered at his words.  Maybe she wasn’t imagining it, and maybe she wasn’t the only one feeling such a chaos in her breast.  Logan had felt something, too.

            “Exactly,” she breathed out.  “A connection.  I’m still feeling it, like an echo.  I don’t understand it.”

            Logan nodded, a single and swift jerk of his head.  “I don’t either.”

            They both lapsed into silence.  Erika pondered at the strange feeling hanging between them.  It was almost palpable, a new sort of tension.  Unbidden, the skin of her neck tingled in memory of his gentle touch.  And how would that touch feel on the rest of her skin?  Would he be so gentle over every inch of her being?  She closed her eyes, unsure whether she wanted to shove that thought away or cling to it and find more like it.

            “You were beautiful.  The singing.”  Logan hesitated, and Erika couldn’t help but open her eyes again and look at him.  He looked at a loss.  Erika wondered if this feeling was as unnerving and exciting for him as her.  He laughed suddenly, a brief and brilliant sound as his gaze shifted away from her finally.  “I don’t know the last time I heard something so incredible.”

            “You should come more often, then.  I sing most nights.”  Erika marveled at the steadiness of her voice.  Her trembling had abated finally, even as her thoughts still scattered over a hundred things about Logan.

            Logan looked back at her, a grin forming.  “I’d like that.  Not the mention the drink I did have was incredible.”

            Erika laughed, and finally felt a bit of the pressure in her chest ease off.  “Well I’m glad you think so!”  She stood up, finally feeling steady again.

            Standing, Logan seemed so much closer to her.  She could reach out and touch him easily, so easily.  The strings of heart between them shivered, tightened.

            Logan stepped closer, but Erika felt no urge to step back.  Rather she welcomed his presence, wanted to lean into him even.  But she fought against the feeling, only swaying a little bit on her feet.  His fingers brushed over her braid, moving it just enough so it lay more smoothly against her.  Erika could hardly breath, fascinated by the closeness of his skin to hers.

            “I have to go,” he whispered.  His head dipped down, forehead touching to hers lightly.  Erika closed her eyes, basking in the last seconds of his closeness.  His palm lifted to cup her cheek, strong and just a bit rough from labor, and all the more pleasant for it.  She let her own hands take gentle holds at his shoulders, fingers just touching his neck.

            The moment was an infinity and a second.  A last whisper of farewell passed between them, and then Logan was stepping away, his touch and warmth gone.  Erika watched him leave, her arms dropping to wrap around herself.  Even after Logan left, she felt him, an echo in her chest.  An untethered string dancing in the wind.


	15. Bronwyn

            She staggered off into the dark, eyes stinging and throat tight, and she would not cry, she _would not_ –

            A sound cracked from her throat, and she collapsed against a wall.  Her knees gave out from beneath her, and she sank to the cold, hard ground.  Her knees drew up to her chest, arms resting on them and providing the perfect sanctuary for her crumping face.  The memories were too sharp, too fresh still.  It had been years, but still she remembered it all as clearly as if it had been just yesterday.

            By no means was it safe for a normal woman to be out alone so late in Einsemar’s streets, especially not in the direction she had gone.  But she was no normal woman.  And that was the crux of it all.  But at least her powers could keep her out of any danger if any foolish bastard tried anything on her.

            She kept her sobs and breathing as muffled as she could.  No was not the time to draw attention to herself.  Not when she could still feel the pain from all those years back.  She feared if she looked up, she’d see it all again, the mock colosseum and leering faces.  Or worse, her savior in all his gleaming armor and beautiful power.

            The crunch of grit underfoot made her jerk up.  One of her countless knives came to her hand with terrible ease as she turned towards the sound.

            In the dark, it was hard to make out any color, but the silhouette looked familiar.  Tall, shape undefined by a cloak.  The figure paused, clearly able to see her better than she could see them.  She lowered her blade, though her grip remained strong.  The figure moved forward, a dark and rippling shape moving between shadows.

            “Forgive me for followin’,” the figure drawled, “but ya ran out, and I figured Erika’d be worryin’.”

            Her shoulders relaxed, if only a bit.  “I’m fine,” she muttered.  Her voice sounded thicker than normal.  The sobs were still lurking, just below the surface.

            Remy drew close enough that she could finally make out some details in the minimal reaches of moonlight.  His face was more or less unreadable.  “I don’t believe ya.  Now, ya can tell me ta fuck off if ya like, but I imagine Erika would feel better if she knew ya made it home wit’out trouble.”

            She closed her eyes, swiping at them quickly with the heel of her palm.  “I’ll be fine, Remy.  I can handle myself.”

            “Bronwyn.”

            She glared up at him from behind the fall of her hair.  She hated how her name sounded on his lips, all smooth and honey sweet.  More so she hated how it made her feel, how it quickened something in her chest.

            His eyes, impossibly dark in the night, beseeched her even as his words did.  “I know ya can handle yourself.  But right now, ya shouldn’t have to.  You’re hurtin’, bad.  I just wanna make sure ya don’t get in any trouble.”

            “I don’ need you to babysit me!” she snapped back.  “Now fuck off already!  Jus’ leave me alone.”

            Bronwyn spun around on her heel and started to walk away as fast as she could.  She was a fair bit smaller than the southerner, and her shorter legs had to move fast to carry her away.  She had no illusions; Remy would surely follow her at a distance despite her response.  He was genuinely concerned, for whatever damn reason, and that only made her angrier.  Why couldn’t she just be left alone until her tempestuous mood ended?  She didn’t want to talk to Remy, or Erika, or anyone; she wanted to be alone!

            It was surely a vain hope, but Bronwyn was not one to give up easily.  She took as long and winding a path as she could, making her corners abruptly, sometimes running to the next one if it was close.  Always Remy seemed to be just behind her, somehow never losing track of her.  The frustration and anger boiled under her skin, making building signs and banners wave as she passed, rattling vases in windowsills.

            When she reached her home, the bells of the cathedral rang out the midnight hour.  Bronwyn ran to the door, opening it only enough to slip through before slamming it shut with her telekinesis.  She started to lock the door the same way, but before she could, the door swept open and Remy was inside.

            Bronwyn knew she could hurl him out with just a thought.  And she knew that Remy knew that, too.

            So why wasn’t she?

            For a moment, neither of them moved.  Bronwyn stared at the stairs, and Remy stared at her back.  The silence was claustrophobic, pressing heavy against her skin.

            “It’s all catching up on me,” Bronwyn blurted out.  She couldn’t fathom why she was saying this, to Remy especially, but the silence _needed_ to be filled.  “My past, who I was, wot I did.  That people died because of me.  I was desperate, I didn’ know any bettah, and I needed . . . I needed someone, and he–”

            “Bronwyn,” Remy sighed.  His hand pressed lightly on her shoulder, the barest amount of pressure.  He was so tall, all but towering over her.  But she wasn’t afraid, and it wasn’t because she could throw him over her shoulder.

            “Bronwyn, I know.  I know ‘bout what ya did.  I know ‘bout de Hand.  I know all ‘bout dat.”  His hand tightened on her shoulder.  “Dat doesn’t define you.  You aren’t dat person anymore.  You’re better now.  And dere will be days when all ya can think ‘bout is what ya did and how ya wish ya hadn’t.  And that’s okay.  It’s okay ta regret.  But ya gotta forgive yourself someday.

            Bronwyn brought her hands up to her eyes, rubbing at them furiously in a bid not to cry.  The effort was futile; the sting of tears came back, and this time she knew it was useless to fight them.  She refused to sob – she wouldn’t be that weak – but the tears still fell silently.

            Remy made a soft, gentle sound.  His hands turned her around, and Bronwyn let him for some strange reason.  Before she could understand, he had folded her in close, a gentle and loose embrace.  She could have pulled away, he left her that opportunity, but she didn’t.  She didn’t want to.  It didn’t matter that she didn’t know him well yet, she knew she would, and there was a strange comfort in the contact and the way he stroked her hair just a bit.  Silent, she let her tears fall, and took what comfort she could.


	16. Dame Ameline

            The morning was mild, the narrow city streets crowded as everyone went about their business.  Erika had to push her way through the crowds with her elbows and a few quick words of apology.

            Normally Erika would have dealt with her parents’ requests first and foremost, allowing her to follow the flow of morning foot traffic through Einsemar.  After last night, however, she needed to find Vendetta.

            As soon as Logan had left the tavern, guilt had gnawed at her until she was empty of anything else.  She had let her best friend run off into the night alone.  It didn’t matter if the southern Thief went after her; for all Remy LeBeau seemed to know, he wasn’t Vendetta’s friend of two years and counting.  But Erika had let her down, and now she was determined to make it up to her.

            The old tailor’s shop was in sight finally.  The upper story window was open.  Erika moved to the side of the street, staring up intently at the window.  Her focus was narrowed down to that single point.  Intense attentiveness was the only safe way to let her guard down and let her power slip out.

            Most mutants in Genosha were relatively harmless.  There were those like Vendetta who could move objects by thought alone, and those that could read others’ minds.  There were others who could control elements.  All those things could be used for danger, or harmlessly.

            Erika’s own inherited gifts were unlike those, however.  Like her Uncle Christophe, Erika could sense emotions.  While her uncle could only sense other people’s feelings in an aura around their person, Erika was capable of more.  She could feel the emotional state of anyone she chose by focusing on them, or she could open herself fully and be washed over with the emotions of every individual within an unknown radius.  That was dangerous to herself, though, as the influx of feeling was simply so overwhelming.

            The true danger of her power, and the reason she kept it under mental lock and key, was not because of her ability to sense.  Rather, it was because of her ability to _change_ , to _influence_.  Without caution, she could impose her own emotions on those around her whose minds were unguarded.  Worse, she could give them commands, certainly by voice, and sometimes by feeling; they would obey fully and without hesitation, regardless of any harm they were brought.

            Erika rarely let her powers loose for fear of influencing those around her and bringing them possible harm.  But today, she needed to know if Vendetta was in her home, and her abilities to sense emotion could aid her in that.  Every individual had a unique impression.  Vendetta’s reminded her of fire: warm and pleasant, but dangerous if you weren’t careful.  She was familiar enough with her friend’s personal aura that she would be able to tell if she were home or not.

            The power unspooled from her, reaching out like a phantom touch to push into the building.  From there she could only reach around, searching, feeling.

            There!  Vendetta was home, upstairs, seemingly calm and collected.  Half her mind still focused on keeping tabs on her friend, Erika moved closer to the window so she could be seen better.  She hated to do it, but she fed the suggestion in to her friend to look out her window.

            Vendetta tended to keep her mind guarded, but Erika was lucky; today, the woman had left herself open to suggestion, for the time being at least.  Soon, the fiery head appeared in the window.  Vendetta’s eyes found Erika quickly, an insincere scowl on her face.  Erika broke into a smile, raising her hand to wave.  Vendetta’s mouth quirked up at one corner and she made a quick beckoning gesture.

            Erika already felt relieved as she scampered to her friend’s door.  Vendetta looked a little pale and a little drawn, but that was better than the sorrow that had been so evident last night.  Perhaps her dark mood had passed, or at least alleviated.

            The door swept open on its own; Erika had visited enough times to know it was an invitation, and she stepped inside.  The interior of the house was dim and cool.  Vendetta was halfway down the stairs, dressed in her usual attire of soft worn trousers and a loose shirt.  She smiled, just a little curve of her lips that Erika felt wasn’t entirely sincere, before turning around and climbing back up the stairs.  Erika trailed after her, a little more cautious on the rickety structure.

            The upper floor was a simple living space.  The initial room was open, dominated by a round table that two mismatched chairs sat at.  Further across the room was a fireplace for cooking and heating.  A single wall marked the private space for Vendetta’s bedroom.  Seeing it, Erika was always reminded how lucky she was that her parents owned a larger building so they had more space to live in comfortably.

            Vendetta had sat herself in one of the chairs.  Her collection of knives and small swords were spread out over the table, along with a whet stone.  Erika took the other chair that was set up on the other side of the table.

            “Wot’s got you dropping in so early?” Vendetta asked as she picked up the next blade.  She started to sharpen it with quick, well-practiced motions.

            Erika raised her eyebrows at her, gaze cool as ice.  “You know exactly why.  You’re just not talking about it.”

            Vendetta sighed, tossing her head so her long hair flew out of her face.  “I wasn’t exactly sobah last night.  Just got carried away with my thoughts.  It’s nothing.”

            Erika shook her head with a sigh.  She knew her friend well enough to know it wasn’t so simple, or so easily dismissed.  She also knew that Vendetta wasn’t the lady of secrets for nothing.  The redhead would talk when she was ready.  If she ever was.

            She let it drop for the time being, watching the woman sharpening her blades instead.  It made her think of the blade that dutifully hung at her hip.  Did it need to be sharpened like this?  What if it wasn’t?

            Erika unfastened the dagger, holding it up in front of them both.  Vendetta stopped working, peering up from beneath her brows.

            Erika held the dagger firmly, a little rueful smile on her face.  “I still don’t know anything about using this.”

            Vendetta laughed; just like that, everything was normal again.  Vendetta set her own blade down, reaching over and plucking the tiny dagger from Erika’s hands.  The redhead quickly pulled it free, holding it in her hand for a moment before cutting it through the air.

            “It’s a good knife, I’ll give the man that,” she said, a bit grudgingly.  “Still, I wouldn’t have given this to you without any practice.  We’ll have to find some time and fix tha’, no?”  Without waiting for Erika to reply, Vendetta touched the pad of a finger to the blade.  She hummed, drawing her finger back and sucking at the red line there.  “Sharp enough for sure.  For now, you can jus’ bring it to me if you think it needs some attention.”  She sheathed the dagger again and tossed it back to Erika.  The tavern girl caught it easily, surprised to feel a bit more settled with its familiar weight on her person again.  She didn’t let herself dwell on that, or on the man who gave it to her, for long.

            “Any news on the contest?” Vendetta asked as she settled back into her work.

            Erika nodded to herself.  “We continue today.  The King is speeding it up.  Apparently there’s a royal event soon.”

            “Nervous at all?”

            “Hardly,” Erika sighed.  “I sang the song we’re singing today last night.  Everyone loved it.”  Especially Logan . . .

            Vendetta was staring at her.  Erika flushed, realizing she had voiced a dreamy sort of sigh in the quiet that followed.  She ducked her head, tying the dagger back onto her belt just for the excuse to not meet her friend’s gaze.

            “Logan was there, wasn’t he?”

            “Bronwyn!”

            The woman’s eyes rolled.  “Should’ve known.  You’re so damn smitten with him.  You don’ even know the man!”

            “Don’t remind me,” Erika groaned, tossing her hands in the air.  “I just feel . . . good with him.  He doesn’t demand anything from me.  I can just be myself.”

            “Not to mention he’s good looking,” Vendetta teased.  She laughed as Erika’s blush darkened.  “There’s nothin’ wrong with it, luv.  Just be careful.  Men break hearts.  And worse.”  The sharp grating of the knife on steel made Erika’s ears ring.  The humor had drained out of Vendetta’s words as she spoke, and her whetting had gone nearly violent.

            Erika frowned to herself and wondered some more.

***

            It was a force of will to push her mind away from pondering over Vendetta’s remark and the way she voiced it.  Standing in the parlor, unknown moments from competing, was not the time for such distractions.

            The other competitors were mostly keeping to themselves today, reciting the words or even singing to themselves.  Erika grimaced faintly as one hopeful girl belted the song out – _Overdone, far too overdone, please don’t let him pick_ her!  A few people had already gone, and none of them had returned; likely sent to another room so they couldn’t speak of the setting with the rest of them.

            Vivien was sitting calmly in a chair, brushing her fingers through her hair.  Erika found her hands straying to her fall of curls, feeling the frizz of them under her fingers.  The sudden bout of self-consciousness made her look away and around the room.  That only made it worse; so many beautiful dresses and tunics, so many others for richer than she.  Erika felt suddenly small and drab in comparison.  A nightingale among cardinals and bluebirds.

            _But the nightingale has the prettiest song_.

            Erika breathed deeply, fisting her hands in her dress.  Erika was pretty, she knew that, didn’t need to be told.  The contrast of dark hair and pale skin was favorable for her, and her habit of nipping at her lips while thinking made them flush bright.  But there was a simplicity to her that most of the other competitors lacked.

            Most of them were women, around Erika’s age.  It was evident from their rich fabrics and pretty jewelry that they belonged to wealthy families.  All of them were so brilliant, so gaudy.  The belonged in a royal court, jewels to hold aloft and brag about.  Erika could not compare.

            The men were few, but all of them were just as beautiful.  No two bore any similarity; some were small, delicate almost, while others were tall and broad and strong.  Erika could imagine the tenor of their voices ringing out in the palace.  Enthralling, beautiful creatures that belonged in a fairytale.

            And then there was Erika and Vivien.  Pretty, but simple; no flash or fancy to them.  Vivien was dressed in a dress that may have been a bright red once, but washing had faded to a pretty, rosy pink that matched the excited flush of her cheeks.  Her features were warm and open, cheerful.  She looked happy and excited, far more comfortable with herself after their singing at the tavern.

            And Erika in her dark blue dress, dark as the twilight sky.  She had left her hair loose, letting it fall in a cascade around her shoulders.  As she turned her head to look about the room, the ends brushed at her elbows.

            Pretty, both of them.  But they didn’t look like they could belong.

            The door opened.  The hush was immediate, everyone’s eyes snapping over to the door and the man who stood there.

            “Erika Deforest; the king as requested you.”

            Erika felt her stomach drop to somewhere near her feet.  She took a deep breath, smoothing out her skirt again.  She caught Vivien’s gaze for a moment, and the brilliant smile the girl flashed her made her feel so much lighter.

            Erika moved across the room from her secluded little place.  Everyone watched her as she walked, but that was nothing new.  Her head remained high as she walked to the door and through it.  Her hands may have trembled, but it was hardly noticeable.

            The door closed behind her with a muffled sound.  Erika looked at her guide briefly; he hardly paid her any mind as he led the way to the throne room.  Erika trailed a step behind him.  Her nerves settled as she walked down the hall, letting her eyes turn to admire the tapestries, paintings, and flowers that decorated the palace.  Some of the art made her think of her father.  He rarely had time to indulge in his true passion.  A shame, in her mind; he had such talent for art!  Erika had once found a sketch he had drawn, a month or two after her birth according to the date, of her mother holding her.  The love had been all but bursting off the page.

            Perhaps if Erika won the competition, the pay for being troubadour would be enough that he wouldn’t have to work so hard and he could return to art.

            The thought made Erika smile and sent a fresh wave of determination through her.  Plain she may be, but she was willing to gamble that her voice could outshine all the others.

            The door of the throne room was open, flanked by two tall, imposing iron guards in full armor.  Still Erika remained poised, letting herself be led into the room.  It was just as vast and open as she remembered.  The sunlight streaming in illumined the space in a golden warmth.  At the far end of the room sat the Iron King in his throne.  He was flanked on each side by two other figures.  As Erika drew closer, she realized it was Lord Xavier and the lady who had been with him when she signed onto the competition – Raven, he had said.  The only other individual in the room was a young woman who stood just to the side of the thrones; another servant, likely to escort Erika from the room when she finished.

            The man stopped a few steps from the throne and bowed.  Erika mimicked him by dipping into a curtsy, head bowed a little.  A wave of the king’s hand had them both rising.  Though the servant turned about and left, Erika remained.  She folded her hands before herself, gazing quiet and cool upon the throne.

            The quiet lasted for a moment.  Erika had the distinct impression that she was being weighed and measured.

            “Welcome back,” the Iron King finally spoke, his voice low but kind.  “I have invited Lord Xavier and Lady Darkholme to listen to your performance as well, if that’s all right.”

            “Perfectly, your majesty,” Erika replied, inclining her head slightly.

            “Good.  Whenever you’re ready, Miss Deforest.”

            Erika nodded, rolling back her shoulders and lifting her chin.  She didn’t look at them; looking at an audience at the beginning of a song still made her nervous even after years of singing.  She took a lengthy breath, preparing herself to sing.

            The last note eased from her lips, sweet and warm and filling the room entirely.  Her voice rose and soared through the open room.  Her mind slipped back in time, back to last night when she had sang the song not for her audience, but for Logan.  It was so easy to find that magic feeling again.  It lay dormant in her breast, and even a simple thought was enough to waken it so that it unfurled through her entire being.  It reached into her throat, finding her voice and escaping with it.  Glorious, adoring feeling, full of warmth of beauty and ardor.

            “O Waly Waly” seemed to fly by her the second time she gave her voice to it.  Before she realized it, she was trailing out the last note.  The sound hung in the air like a shimmering crystal, vibrating through the whole room before fading away into silence.

            For a moment, none of them spoke; her small audience sat in silence.  Erika looked them over, shocked to see tears suspended in Xavier’s eyes.  Raven wore a smile, small but pleased.  The King was unreadable, his expression shuttered.

            “Thank you,” the King finally spoke; his voice was gruff, as if he were fighting against his emotional response as well.  “Elizabeth will escort you to the sitting room.  You’ll wait there while everyone else performs and I make my decision.”

            Erika curtsied deeply as the lady approached her.  She remained quiet and demure as she was gestured to follow the other girl, and walked in silence from the throne room.  Under her skin, her heart slammed at her chest.  Surely such responses were a good sign?

            As they left the throne room behind, the servant turned her head shyly towards Erika.  “You’re the best singer I’ve heard so far.  You had such passion in your voice.  I wish I could sing half as prettily as you.”

            Erika smiled, feeling her chest loosen slightly.  “It just takes practice, really.  I’m sure you have a lovely voice.”

            “Oh, not like yours though!  You were so clear.  I think it would be a shame if his majesty were to dismiss you.”

            Her cheeks flushed slightly at the compliments.  “You’re far too kind, Elizabeth, though hearing you say that does give me a sense of relief.”

            “Good.  You certainly have nothing to worry about so far.”  Elizabeth stopped, gesturing towards the open door before them.  “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

            Erika thanked her again before stepping into the room.  Like all the other spaces of the palace she had seen so far, the room was spacious and decorated with various forms of art.  Chairs and couches were set about the room, providing ample space for people to sit.  Erika wondered if visiting dignitaries would lounge here during their visits.

            Some of the seats were occupied by Erika’s competitors.  A young man and woman sat on a couch, holding hands and leaning close together.  Besides them, the other two in the room had isolated themselves.  Erika enforced her mental blockades against the palpable sense of anxiety in the room.  The other four in the room were clearly worried about how they would fare.

            Taking the girl’s advice, Erika pushed her worries aside as best she could and set about wandering through the room.  She moved slowly along the edges of the room, admiring the paintings and tapestries.  Most of them depicted legendary or factual events in Genosha’s history.  One depicted En Sabah Nur entering his kingdom for the first time.  Another showed the legendary Queen Matilda, the Queen of Peace as she was called, who had supposedly ruled without a drop of blood shed for thirty years.  Knights on horseback, kings and queens with their jeweled scepters and crowns, lords and ladies in their finery; beautiful images, all of them.  They stole Erika’s breath.

            She was aware of people entering the room as she observed the art, though she paid them no attention.  If anyone wanted to speak to her, they could approach her just as easily as she could approach them.  Voices were rising in volume as more people were gathered together.  The nervous spikes of their voices made Erika frown a little.  Perhaps it was wrong of her not to worry at all, but even as she looked for any anxiety, she couldn’t find it.

            She stopped when she heard someone call out her name.  The voice registered quickly as belonging to Vivien, and Erika hastened to turn around.  The blonde was already nearly upon her.  Erika merely reached out her hands to her.  Vivien took hold of her hands quickly, her eyes gleaming.

            “How did you do?” she asked, her voice babbling in what Erika now recognized as a nervous habit.  “I think I did all right, but they were all so quiet, just thanking me and then dismissing me.  I’m sure you don’t have anything to worry about.  Not that I’d mind if I lost, especially since your parents have been so kind to hire me on, but-”

            “Vivien, please,” Erika said gently; she focused just enough to push some calm upon her friend, felt as a slight twinge focused between her eyes.  It seemed to work.  Vivien’s hands relaxed on hers.  Erika smiled, squeezing her hands gently.  “It’s going to be all right, my friend.  What happens is what’s meant to be.”

            Vivien’s face turned a slight pink.  “I’m sorry.  I just get so nervous sometimes.  You’re so calm!  How do you do it?”

            Erika waved one hand at the art around them.  “I simply looked for a distraction and focused on it long enough to calm down.  I’d recommend deep breaths first, though.”

            The two girls laughed together.  Erika was relieved to see Vivien relaxing a bit more.

            “Thank you,” Vivien said suddenly.  “You’ve been so kind to me this whole time.  No one else has been really.  I truly hope you win.  You have more talent than these vain ladies possess in the tip of their finger.”

            Erika beamed at the other girl.  “It’s been my pleasure.  I didn’t expect to make a friend during this.”

            Vivien returned her smile with equal radiance.  “Me either.  But I’m glad it’s gone this way.  Can we look at the art though?  I still feel a bit anxious.”

            Erika laughed, more than happy to agree.  She doubted there was much time to left, and a glance at the room proved it; eight of the ten contestants were with them.  Soon the King would be making his decision.  The first jerk of nerves pulled at her heart, but Erika resolutely pushed them aside.  She would be all right.  Vain as it sounded to herself, her talent was unquestionable, her voice a natural gift.  Her only training had come briefly from a traveling minstrel who had hung around the city for a few weeks.  He had taught her to play instruments and ensured she could carry a tune; the rest she had cultivated on her own.  The King would be foolish to ignore her just because of her lower social status.

            Dwelling on it wouldn’t help her position, though.  Erika put her mind to showing Vivien the finer points of artwork: how the colors complimented each other for brightness, or contrasted for darkness, the careful strokes of a brush and meticulous threading on tapestries.  Vivien was attentive and admiring of the beautiful creations, something that relieved Erika.  She had never understood how some people couldn’t admire art.

            Vivien’s sudden loss of interest was what finally alerted Erika to the entrance of the last competitor.  Erika turned away from the art.  Distractions were worthless now.  It was time to wait.

            Vivien crept over to an empty couch and perched delicately upon an edge.  Erika joined her, her hands folding demurely in her lap.  A tense quiet hung in the air as everyone shifted and settled in to wait.  Erika had no doubt that all of them were worrying over what their future would hold.

            All but one, it was soon proven.  Another woman, a few year’s Erika’s senior if she had to guess, sat with smug composure.  Her ginger hair was silky smooth, her skin impossibly fair, marred only by a soft dusting of freckles.  Her eyes were a heated shade of brown, and in her excitement, they seemed to gleam red.  In contrast, her dress was a rich green, a forest shade that shone in the crushed velvet.  The dress was matched with a gilt necklace – or perhaps it was all gold, Erika couldn’t possibly say – with an emerald pendant.  A rich and pretty girl, self-assured in her own talent.

            “It must be so difficult to not know if the king will choose you,” the woman purred, her lips curving into a cold smile.  “I can’t imagine the stress of it.”

            “How can you be so certain?” a young man asked, his jaw set hard and brows furrowed.  “You don’t know his majesty’s mind.  No one here does.”

            The woman smiled, proud and secretive.  Erika felt dislike curdling in her stomach.  “I just know,” she purred.  “I sang perfectly.  There’s no way he wouldn’t choose me.  There’s no way I won’t win.”

            The tension in the air collapsed, turning swiftly to abject misery.  The girl’s pride had ruined the mood for the others, ruined all their hopes.  Even Vivien had wilted.  The sight of it made a flicker of anger join the bitterness brewing in Erika.

            “It’s quite rude of you to speak that way to us,” Erika said.  Her voice was sharper than usual, a brisk lash of her tongue in the air.

            The woman arched her thin brows, her smile remaining still as cold as before.  “And who are you to speak to me so, wench?  I am Dame Ameline!  I have the birthing to be worthy of such a position, unlike you two.  I can hardly believe the king even let you in!”

            “All of us here were chosen for our talent,” Erika replied.  “Our social status doesn’t matter.  Otherwise, we wouldn’t all be here.”

            Ameline rolled her eyes.  “Whatever you must say to make yourself feel better.  You’re just a little wench, nothing more.”

            “That’s not true,” the man who spoke earlier cut in.  “She’s the Deforest girl.  Everyone in the city knows about her!  I’ve never heard anything bad about her voice.”

            “A tavern girl can’t compare to a lady who is trained to sing,” the ginger replied, her chin lifting haughtily.  “She’s never had a single second of training.  How could she possibly make it any further in this contest?”

            The heat simmered under Erika’s cheeks, eyes stinging sharply.  She rose, her movements as sharp as the dagger at her hip.  With a flare of her skirt, she turned and stalked away from the couches, short legs devouring the distance across the room.  Mindless, she threw the doors of the room open and stormed out into the hall.  Her tongue burned with the urge to lash out with venom on its tip; it took every ounce of her will to drag herself away.

            The halls of the palace meant nothing to her, her eyes seeing nothing about her.  There was nothing but a thin veil of rage, insult, embarrassment.  Ameline’s words rang in her ears, and Erika began to wonder if she was right.  How could her untrained voice possibly compare to someone with years of training?  Any of the merchant class and nobles competing must have had at least a few lessons in playing and singing.  All Erika had ever had was that traveling minstrel.

            Eric had been his name, his voice accented and handsome.  When he had sang in the market, Erika’s heart had spasmed in her chest.  She had been only fourteen, and though she had been shy, she had marched straight to the man and begged him to teach her how to sing like him.  Perhaps a little of her power had helped persuade him; those had been the early days when it was far less in her control.  But either way, Eric had smiled and agreed.  She had spent a few days with him, always meeting in the market.  He had improved her playing of the lute and harp and taught her the basic mechanics of a few other instruments.  But it had been her voice they had focused on, and within the week, she had shown leaps and bounds of improvement.

            Eric had left sooner than she had liked, but they had both known the day would come.  He left her with careful instructions that she still followed.  Always warm her voice before singing, regularly tune her instruments, drink honeyed water to soothe her throat, never sing when ill; she followed his advice as religiously as she attended church.

            But a travelling minstrel could not compared to a paid professional.

            Erika finally stopped, sagging against a wall.  She had no way of knowing where she was in the palace, but the thought hardly bothered her.  Instead she sank to the floor, leaning against the cool wall with her eyes clamped shut.  It did nothing against the rising sting of her tears, and did nothing to stop them from escaping.  Erika curled closer to herself, weak sobs hitching her breath.

            Time was meaningless in that moment of surreal agony.  But eventually the sound of a voice drew her into silence.  She couldn’t stop the hitching of her breaths, though she managed to stem her tears.

            “Erika?  Please, Erika, where are you?”

            Erika sat up, surprised to recognize Vivien’s voice.  A hurried hand dashed the tears from her face before she stood.  “Vivien?” she called out; her voice quivered slightly.

            The soft patter of peasant shoes reached her ears.  In seconds, the blonde had hurried around the corner.  The concern struck Erika like a slap to the face; the tears welled up again, only worsening the feelings swamping her mind.  Vivien rushed forward without another word and embraced her tightly.

            “Oh, that awful woman!” Vivien hissed.  “To make you cry like this; horrible thing!  She doesn’t deserve to continue the contest!”

            Erika sucked in a hard breath, clinging weakly to her friend.  “Who-?”

            “We both did,” Vivien said hurriedly.  “You and I, Ameline, the man who spoke up in your defense, and another man who spoke up after you stormed off.  You made it through, Erika.  You can prove her wrong still!”

            Erika shook her head, pulling away to rub at her eyes.  “I don’t care about that,” she replied, her voice trembling.  “I’m here because I want to be here, not to make a point.  I just wish she hadn’t been so . . .”  Erika shook her head; it didn’t matter.  Calling Ameline names would do nothing.  “The rules for the next stage?”

            “Another song; Greensleeves it’s called?  It comes from Britannia I believe.”

            Erika smiled softly.  “I know it.  It’s an absolutely beautiful song, but much more difficult.  How long do we have to practice?”

            “A few days again, but I’m worried,” Vivien said.  “I doubt I’ll be able to win this next stage.  I’ve no doubt you can win it, win the title even, but you have such an incredible voice!  I’m far more plain.”

            “Let’s not worry about it,” Erika urged.  “I’m tired, I’d like to go home and rest before tonight.”

            Vivien nodded hastily.  “Of course.  Would it be all right if I walk with you?  I’d just . . . feel better knowing you’re home after today.”

            Erika smiled, feeling a burst of affection for the girl.  “I’d like that.  Thank you.”

            Vivien smiled, already looking more relaxed.  “What else are friends for?  Come on, before I forget how to get out of here again.”

***

            Vivien was easy to talk to on the walk back to the tavern, and to Erika’s relief, she never mentioned Ameline again.  By the time they had arrived at the tavern, it was close to evening, and the doors would soon be open to the public.  Erika was glad to know she’d have a bit of time to relax beforehand, especially with Vivien to help with the final preparations in her place.

            Erika pushed the door open, smiling when she saw her parents both look up expectantly.  “Hello,” she said, surprised with just how much chipper she already sounded.  “Vivien and I both proceeded!”

            “That’s wonderful!” her mother said, hurrying around the counter to hug both of them.  “I’m so proud of you both!”

            “Erika had a rough day, so I think she should rest until business starts,” Vivien said.

            “What happened?” her father asked, making his way over as well.

            “It’s nothing really,” Erika said quickly.  “One of the other contestants was exceptionally rude, that’s all.  I got a bit upset over it.”

            “Well maybe this will cheer you up,” Charles said, holding up a folded piece of paper.  “This was slipped under the door earlier.  Your name is on it.”

            Frowning, Erika took the letter from him.  Her name was a dark shape against the white.  As her parents fell into conversation with Vivien, she slipped away, sneaking up the stairs to the house proper.  She traced the letters of her name as she crossed to her own small room and sank down onto her bed.  The writing wasn’t Vendetta’s hand.  The possibilities of her writer made her heart quicken.

            Hastily, she unfolded the paper and smoothed it out over her lap.  Her eyes ran over it quickly, reading the brief message inside.

 

_Erika,_

_Meet me at the edge of the woods tomorrow, early afternoon.  I need to speak with you alone._

_Logan_

 

            The smile that came to her was more radiant than the sun.  Her fingers strayed over his name, tracing the letters, familiarizing herself with them.  She whispered his name under her breath, over and over, tasting and testing it.

            She set the letter gently on the chest beside her bed before laying back.  She covered her mouth with one hand, muffling the giggle that she just couldn’t keep back.  Logan wanted to see her, speak to her; the possibilities were endless.

            She let her eyes drift, and in the darkness, she could see his smile as clear as day.


	17. Dagger

            Erika felt like she would crawl out of her skin.

            Chores, so many chores, and all she needed was to go out to the woods and know why Logan had to see her.  The shopping was done and brought home, she had sorted everything out and put it away, and finally the floor was clean.  Erika stood in the doorway, broom in one hand and the other on her hip, head tilted up to regard the position of the sun.  There was little of the morning left, and soon it would be time for her to go to the woods.  How would she get away from her parents in time?

            Erika stepped back inside, kicking the door shut.  The harsh clap clearly surprised her mother, who looked up from the stone oven.  She was baking fresh bread; the smell of it was sweet and enticing to Erika’s nose.

            “What’s bothering you, dear?” her mother asked.  “You’ve been agitated all morning.”

            “I just . . . I need to practice for the contest,” she blurted out suddenly, inspiration dawning.  Perhaps the lie would be enough for her to be excused for the afternoon.  “I won’t feel ready if I don’t prepare much before.”

            Marie frowned, brushing a few stray wisps of hair from her brow.  “You hardly practiced for the last part of it.”

            “That song was much easier, and I knew it better.  I’m less familiar with this one.”

            Her mother sighed, pausing to pull out the wood platter.  The loaves looked perfect; everything her mother cooked looked perfect.  Marie Deforest, the perfect wife.  She set her perfect bread aside to cool for the time.

            “Erika, sit down a moment,” her mother urged.  Erika hesitated before propping the broom against the wall.  She went and sat at the bar, boosting herself onto one of the stools.  Her mother turned to her, standing on the other side.  She reached across and took Erika’s hands in hers.  Her hands were warm from being so close to the oven.

            “I know you’ve always dreamed of being the troubadour,” her mother said.  “And your father and I have let you.  And you do stand a fair chance at winning.  I’ve never heard prettier singing, not even in the cathedral.  But I worry you’re using it as an escape from what being part of this family includes.”

            Erika frowned; the brief swell of happiness from the compliment dissipated suddenly.  “What do you mean?”

            Her mother brushed back some of Erika’s hair, tracing the shapes of the curls.  “The life of the tavern, Erika.  It’s yours by birth, as it was your father’s.  When we are too old to work, when we die, this place will be yours.  No palace job will stop that truth.”

            Erika leaned back, straightening her posture and lifting her chin.  “Women don’t own anything,” she countered.  Her voice had taken on a bitter, even angry note that darkened her words.  “One of Uncle Christophe’s sons can inherit it.  Will inherit it, likely.  That’s the proper thing to do.”

            “Not if you married first–”

            Erika barked out a sharp, bitter laugh.  “So that’s what this is about!  It’s time for me to settle down, is it?  I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there aren’t exactly men lining up at the door for my hand in marriage.”

            “I just want you to think realistically, Erika,” her mother said, keeping her voice low and steady.  “You dream like your father, and there’s nothing wrong with that.  But you need to consider what will happen in the future, regardless of whether you win the contest or not.”

            “I will,” she replied.  Erika stood up, brushing at her dress.  She didn’t dare to lift her head.  It was too likely that she might begin to cry.

            Her mother fell silent, but Erika could hear her walking around in the small space behind the bar, taking some things out and starting to cut them.  After a moment, she heard her put something down and slide it over.  Erika lifted her head, looking first at the basket and the wrapped contents in it, then to her mother.

            “Go out,” her mother urged.  “Get some fresh air.  Go somewhere alone and practice your song.”

            There was only bitterness in her as she picked up the basket and left the tavern.

***

            The woods were full of birdsong.  Erika sat beneath a tree, leaning against its broad trunk, eyes closed as she listened to it.  She was pleasantly full from her lunch, and the air in the wood was comfortably cool.  But she could not entirely relax.  No, her mind was too busy.

            Her frustration had gone out of her in a matter of seconds; after all, her mother made a fair point.  Being the king’s troubadour was a glamorous life, but it was not a ticket into the higher levels of society, even if she would brush elbows with them.  She was still a commoner at the end of the day, no matter what happened.  The tavern would fall to her, unless her husband adamantly refused to leave his own practice, where she would simply be his wife and bearer of his children.  Even then she was still useful; she could read and write and keep record of money.

            She hated to think of it.  It would be so boring, so predictable.  Wake every morning to make breakfast, care for the children and clean the house, help with the business, cook lunch and dinner, put the children to bed, let him bed her if he was in the mood before she passed out of exhaustion.  It would be on her shoulders to ensure the children could walk and talk, read and write.  She would be mother and teacher and servant all at once.  The thought was enough to nearly make her sick.

            But thinking of that would only matter if someone wanted to marry her, and no man had given any sign of interest.  Plenty of common girls would marry at sixteen, and that had been two years ago.  All that time and still no one had bothered with the tavern girl at the Forest’s Glen.  Perhaps she would never marry, and would simply die alone, old and withered and gray with no one to care for her.  That thought was even worse than the previous.

            There was a quiet rustling in the undergrowth.  Erika sat up suddenly.  Her hand fell to the hilt of her dagger.  For a moment she saw nothing, and then the wolfdog stepped into the open.  Erika relaxed, smiling a little.

            “Hello, Vardan,” she said softly.  She extended her hand, smiling even more as the canine perked his ears and trotted over to her.  He paused to sniff her hand, licked her fingers once where he detected a trace of food scent still, then lowered his head so his chin was on her fingertips.  Erika scratched his chin gently.  “If you’re here,” she mused, “Logan can’t be far.”

            “Right here, actually.”

            Erika looked up from the wolfdog, surprised to see Logan standing a few feet away.  “I didn’t hear you coming,” she said softly.

            “You did, a moment ago,” he replied.  “But only because I wanted you to.  You had the right reaction.  You can’t know what’s in these woods.  But you don’t know a lot about wielding a dagger.”

            Erika smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.  “I told you that when you gave it to me.”

            Logan grinned, a brief flash of teeth in a lopsided smile.  “You did.  And there’s been no time to teach you.  But there’s time now.”

            Erika hummed, resuming scratching the dog when he nudged insistently at her hand.  “That’s the only reason you wanted to see me?”  She barely recognized her own voice.  It had taken on a light and playful ait.  She sounded like a fine lady flirting with a handsome lord.

            Logan didn’t seem to mind; in fact, her inquiry drew another smile to his lips.  “Would you be upset if I said no?”

            “Well that depends.  What other reasons would you have?”

            “I wanted to see you,” he said, walking closer to her.  Erika had to tip her head back to look at him.  “I wanted to hear your voice.  I wanted . . . you.”

            Erika smiled, a radiant warmth spilling through every inch of her being.  “I wanted to see you, too.”  She didn’t dare expand on that statement.  She didn’t dare to say that she had missed him since they had last been together, that she had thought and dreamed of him, wondered if he felt the same distant yearning she had experienced.  From what he said, it seemed he must have felt similarly.

            Logan reached a hand out to her.  “Come with me.”

            Erika didn’t hesitate before putting her hand in his.

***

            Logan kept hold of her hand the whole walk through the woods.  He provided idle chatter during their brief journey, telling her about the woods and the plants they passed by.  Erika wasn’t surprised when they ended up at the small cottage he called home.  Vardan passed by them, head bent as he sniffed around the yard.  Logan led her inside first to set down her basket before going back outside into the open.  The yard around the cottage was clear of most trees, leaving plenty of room for them to move without fear of running into anything.

            Standing before Logan, she felt almost suddenly ridiculous.  How should she hold herself?  Did he note her posture, her shape, the way the light played on her hair?

            “Relax,” Logan said suddenly; there was humor in his words.  “You’re so tense it’s making me uncomfortable.”

            “Sorry,” Erika replied, blushing slightly.  “I’m just . . .  How do we proceed?”

            Logan hummed softly, falling quiet for a moment again.  “Fighting is a funny thing,” he finally said.  “I could teach you all the skills and movements I know, but in the rush of the moment, you won’t remember anything fancy or special.  You’ll remember what’s easy and practical.  So this won’t be anything special.  I just want to make sure you know enough that, if something bad should happen, in the palace or in the city, you can protect yourself without injuring yourself on accident.”

            Erika nodded in understanding.  She had to admit that she felt better knowing it would be much simpler.  She didn’t need any fancy tricks to keep herself safe.  “Where do we begin, then?”

            “Handling.  There’s a trick to holding a blade and being effective.”  Logan nodded to her slightly.  “Go ahead and draw yours.”

            Erika curled her right hand around the hilt.  The blade slipped free of its scabbard with a simple tug.  She swept it around in front of her, blade tilted up and out, growing straight up from her fist.

            It was a handsome blade, prettier than she had noted before.  Under her hand, the handle felt smooth, well crafted.  The crossguard was engraved with a delicate design.  The blade itself was long and true, gleaming in the light.  A fine blade, if a bit delicate; a lady’s dagger.

            Logan examined her grip a moment before nodding to himself.  “This can work.  But gripping a blade this way gives you limited options.  Do you think you’d hold it this way in the heat of the moment?”

            “You really think I know?”  Erika shook her head, lowering the blade.  She felt absurd standing there with the blade.  “I’ve never handled any weapon.”

            “No, but have you seen a nasty fight in the tavern?”

            “Of course I have.”  Erika had seen more than enough brawls.  Most didn’t escalate past fists and feet.  There were those who had drawn blades, though they rarely managed to use them.  Most fights were short lived before people yanked the quarreling parties apart.  Those that did draw their blades never held them the way she gripped them.

            Careful of the sharp edge, Erika turned the blade around in her grip until the blade was held facing down.  Even holding it in this way felt brutal.  She shivered faintly, adjusting her grip on the hilt.

            “Good,” Logan said.  His voice had turned gentler.  It made Erika feel a bit better, though the effect was small.  “Holding a blade like that gives you more mobility, for an attack and defense.  It’s practical in every situation.  The way you held it before would work for stealth, but I doubt you’ll turn into an assassin on us overnight.”

            The tease was so unexpected that Erika burst into a loud laugh.  “No, I don’t intend to do that.  I don’t think I’d like it much.”

            Logan smiled, clearly glad to see her relaxing some.  “I don’t think so either.  Are you ready?”

            Erika nodded.  Logan was suddenly moving around her, until he stood just behind her.  She felt tense again suddenly.  What if there was accident, if she cut herself or him?  When Logan’s hand curled around hers over the dagger, she jerked.

            “Easy,” he whispered.  “It’s all right.  No one’s gonna get hurt here.”  His other hand lighted gently on her arm.  Slowly, he started to stroke her arm, up and down, over and over, varying pressure.  Slowly, Erika started to loosen her shoulders and breathe freer.

            “You need to relax,” he murmured, and even his voice eased her some.  “You have to be quick and light.  Softer grip,” he murmured, stroking her fingers with his so her hand relaxed.  “Have a strong grip, and firm, but not tight.  Too tight and you won’t be effective.  This blade is part of you now, and you’ll learn to move accordingly.”

            Part of her, and wasn’t that horrifying?  A dangerous thing extending from her hand, a thing that could kill.  What was her world coming to?  As mad a thought as it was, however, she knew it was useful.  “I’m ready,” she finally said.  “What do I do?”

            “Do you trust me?”

            Erika hesitated.  She didn’t know why.  She trusted Logan, deeply.  And maybe that was it.  She hardly knew him, yet he had every fiber of her trust, and every ounce of her affections.  How could she feel so safe and so happy with a man who was little more than a stranger?

            “I do,” she whispered.  There was fear in her words.

            Logan squeezed her arm, a gentle pressure.  “Then we begin.  Blocking a strike will be important, lifesaving to be frank.  It requires alertness and speed.  You have to be faster than whoever is attacking you.”  His hand shifted over hers; Erika shivered under his touch.

            “One of the easiest ways is to use the blade and your arm.”  He shifted her hand, turning her wrist until the flat of the dagger pressed against her inner arm.  “Your arm provides support to the blade.  You can block a heavier blow like this.  But if you don’t have time to adjust your grip to hold it this way, you can use your blade as a hook.”  He loosened his grip, and Erika twisted her wrist back to the earlier position unprompted.  Logan led her arm into a forward sweep that went off to the side.

            “So I’d grab their arm using the blade?” she asked.  “Throw them aside?”

            “Basically,” Logan replied.  There was something like pride in his voice.  “We can try both if you want?”

            “Now?”  Erika turned her head, trying to see him over her shoulder.  “With _real_ weapons?”

            “Now,” Logan echoed.  “I won’t hurt you, and you won’t hurt me.  Trust me.”

            Erika took a deep breath, fighting against the tension crawling back under her skin.  She gave a jerking nod.  Logan moved away from her; his hand slipped away last, and Erika’s hand felt nerveless and weak.

            He came around in front of her again, a dagger already drawn.  It was larger than her weapon, and simpler, but far better suited to Logan.  He spun it around in his hand to mirror her grip.  Erika watched him with sudden wariness, noting how he seemed to hover on the verge of a pounce.  Predatory.  For a moment she thought of the iron guard, Victor, and her neck throbbed with memory of his bruising grip.

            Logan moved towards her, making a high strike, slower than she had expected.  Erika didn’t let herself dwell on her action; she raised her arm, dagger pressed flat.  The blade trembled as it blocked the blow.  Logan grinned at her, and Erika felt a flash of pride.

            Another strike.  Erika lashed out, catching his wrist with the blade and jerking aside.

            “Good!” Logan said, a faint hiss in his voice.  “Blade’s definitely sharp.”

            Erika’s eyes widened a little.  “Did I-?”

            Logan shook his head, turning his wrist out.  No scratch.  He turned the gesture into a sudden blow.  Erika scrambled to block it again, staggering backwards.  She moved light enough, but her feet her unfamiliar with the motion.  Her dress was a disadvantage she realized; it would be far too easy to trip over it.

            On and on it seemed to go.  They moved around the yard in ragged motions, Logan always pressing the attack, Erika always defending.  Exhaustion crept up her body, slowly sinking into her body.  Her motions grew slower, weaker; her breath came in great, heaving gasps.  It was no surprise when Logan grabber her with his free hand and pinned her abruptly against a tree.  The edge of his blade hovered by her throat.

            Erika quailed against the tree, shrinking from the blade and his looming presence.  As she watched, Logan broke into a smile.  It was a soft expression, sweet yet full of pride.

            “Not bad,” he said, his voice pitched low, barely above a whisper.  His blade moved aside, replaced by his other hand that cradled the curve of her jaw.  His thumb brushed beneath her eye; his touch left a tingling trail of presence, of knowing his skin had been there.

            “You’re shaking,” he whispered.  His head leaned down, forehead touching against hers.  She was barely aware of him taking the dagger from her grip and slipping it back into its scabbard; she only knew she could touch him more that way, and gladly did.  She gripped his shoulder tight, fingers tangling in the worn fabric of his shirt.

            “I’m all right,” she tried to speak, pushing through the trembling in her voice.  “It’s just . . .”

            His fingers pushed into her hair, massaging slightly at her nape.  Erika’s eyes fluttered, the exhaustion wrapping around her tight.  She leaned forward, sinking into his broad chest, his warmth.  Logan’s arm came around her tight, holding her to him.

            “You make me feel something strange,” Erika whispered against his shoulder.  “Something new.  It’s frightening.  I don’t know what to do.”

            “Is it so bad?” he rumbled in return.  “Would you rather not feel that way?”

            “No!”  Erika cringed at her haste in speaking, the desperation of it.  “No,” she repeated softer, “I wouldn’t want that.  It’s only that I’ve never known anything like this.  They talk of it in poems and stories, but in real life . . .”

            She felt Logan’s laughter more than heard it.  His whole body seemed to vibrate with the echoes in his chest.  His whole voice moved through him even.  It was soothing.

            “Now you know,” he said softly.  He sighed, fingers sliding over the soft skin of her throat; more shivery aftershocks worked through her.  “I’m afraid I should let you go back home.  You’ve had enough practice today.  Wore you out entirely.”

            Erika hummed in agreement, slowly leaning away from him.  Back against the tree, its bark sharp and insistent through her dress.  Logan smiled at her, the expression soft.

            “Wait here,” he urged.  Erika hated the feeling of him moving away from her, but she knew it was an inevitable necessity.  She watched after him intently as he went across the yard to his little cottage.

            As soon as he disappeared inside, Erika sank back against the tree with a sigh.  It was too early for the feelings he stirred in her to be love, but Erika had little doubt it would escalate to that point.  How was it that the only man to show any genuine interest in her was the reclusive woodsman?  She could already hear her parents’ reaction to that!

            Still, she could not deny her own feelings.  When Logan stepped back out with her basket, Erika had the most wonderful smile for him.  She took her basket back, and grasped his hand when it was offered.  She laughed at his jokes and smiled at his kind words the whole walk back through the woods.  Vardan occasionally came up to her side and nudged at her hand, and she gladly pet his soft head.

            Logan stopped only at the edge of the woods, just out of sight from the guards by the open gate.  For a moment, all three stood still, watching people traveling through the gate; farmers, mostly, heading home after a successful day of sales.  Neither let go of the other’s hand in that long moment.

            “We don’t have to go any further,” Logan said suddenly.  His voice was so unexpected that Erika jumped.  When she looked over at him, she found him staring straight ahead, jaw set in a sharp line.  “I’m not . . . a good pick for you.”

            Erika hesitated in replying.  He had the same worries as her it would seem.  They were vastly different people; Erika the dreamer, the singer, and Logan the woodsman, gruff and brusque and strong.

            “People find each other for reasons,” Erika said softly.  “There must be some reason we met in the woods.”

            Logan turned towards her.  He was smiling, just a little, and his eyes twinkled a warm shade of brown.  “Certainly.  I was there to help you become unlost.”

            Erika smiled, tightening her hand on his.  “Yes.  But I think there’s more to it then that.  Maybe you’re only bound to help me in this strange time.  But I feel it’s more than that.  Don’t you?”

            “Yes,” he agreed, his voice barely audible, “but Erika . . .”

            “Hush,” she whispered, moving closer to him.  She reached up, pressing her palm against the dark scruff on his jaw.  He angled into her touch, his own hand covering hers.  Their held hands unwound, reaching out to the other.  His hand curled around her waist, and she grabbed onto his shoulder.

            Erika felt her stomach twist into a knot.  She knew nothing of what she was about to do; no man had kissed her before, and she had never thought she could dare to initiate such contact.  Yet she rose up through the distance between them, head tipping back.  Her hand slid up to his neck, gentle pressure to the back of his head.  Logan leaned down at her prompting.  She felt the callouses of his fingers brush across her cheek before his fingers dove into her hair.  The distance grew smaller, smaller, until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer and simply had to trust.

            At the first touch of her lips to his, Erika felt a spark surge through her whole body.  The sensation stole her breath, making her body tense and shiver.  Heat flashed through her after, as if the spark had lit a flame through her whole body.  She felt Logan wrapping his arm around her, and she gladly pressed closer to him.  Every inch of contact between their bodies seemed to throb and sing.  It was a nearly aching sensation that tore the breath from her lungs.

            Though Erika had started the kiss, it was Logan who commanded it.  His mouth came alive at her touch, returning her kiss almost desperately.  Erika opened to him, clinging to him as the kiss dizzied her and stole away her breath.  One kiss led into another with hardly any time to breathe, each one as deep and ravenous as the last.  She only burned more at each searing touch.  She ached for him, more of him; she wanted and yearned.

            Logan drew back suddenly.  Erika collapsed back onto her feet, breathless and shocked.  She drew in deep, desperate breaths to try and fill her lungs again.

            “I have to go,” she finally whispered.  “My parents, they’ll be expecting me.”

            “I know,” Logan replied.  His voice was soft as well.  His hand stroked through her hair.  “I’ll see you soon.”

            “Soon,” she echoed, the word only a sigh.

            He tipped her head up, gentle but still insistent.  Erika met his eyes, unflinching from the seriousness there.  “Promise me you’ll still be careful,” he said.  “In the competition and in the palace.  Nothing is as it seems there.”

            “I promise.  But how do you know that?  You’re just the woodsman.”

            Though he still looked at her, Erika felt that he did not see her in that moment.  His eyes had gone dark and distant, as if he were reaching for a far back memory.  But then he blinked and the look was gone.  “Just trust me.  I know.  I know plenty.”

            As they said their goodbyes, Erika realized how little she knew of Logan.  Everything about him was a mystery.  Why did he live alone in the woods?  How did he come to be there in the first place?  What about his family?  He seemed so common, yet his speech implied he was well educated.  His familiarity with a blade seemed to run deeper than practical practice.

            As she hurried across the bare expanse of the field towards the main road and gate, Erika let herself wonder about him.  Much like with Vendetta, she let her mind conjure up possible answers to her questions.  Unlike with her friend, however, each beginning failed to find a logical end.  Perhaps he was the son of a merchant in another city; that would explain his education, but not his comfort in the wild woods, or his vast knowledge of them.  Perhaps his family had always been in the woods; but the few who spoke of him never spoke of other woods-people, and surely they would if there had been others.  A former knight, or just a squire, perhaps hiding from abandoning his position; but he went through the city with ease and comfort, so that was impossible, unless he had been discharged; but why discharge a strong, healthy male in his prime?

            “I’ll just have to ask next time,” she muttered under her breath.  Next time, yes.  The thought brought a smile to her face.  What would their next time together bring?  Another burning kiss that would fan flames in her soul?  Or just more training with her dagger?

            Did it matter really?  Erika would love every moment with him.  She always did.  Someday she would know him as well as she knew herself.  That she did not doubt.

            With a skip in her step, she hurried home.  The tavern door swung open with a low groan and clapped shut behind her.  Her father was there, cleaning dishes before business began.

            “Ah, there you are,” he smiled at her.  “How was the singing, little songbird?”

            “It was lovely!”  Erika couldn’t help from beaming as she set the small basket down.  Lovely her time had been, certainly!

            “That’s good to hear,” her father smiled.  “Did you run back?  Your color is quite high.”

            “A bit.  It’s just such a lovely day,” Erika agreed.  Let him think what he will.  Logan and their kiss would be her secret for a time.

            “That it is.  If only we could abandon work for a day and just lounge in a field and enjoy the wind and sun.”  Her father laughed to himself.  “Unfortunately, that isn’t how it goes.  Why don’t you go upstairs and refresh yourself?  You can help me finish a few things after.”

            Erika smiled brightly, leaning quickly across the bar to kiss his cheek.  She left her father with a smile, skipping up the stairs.  Wanting a bit of privacy, Erika closed herself in her personal room.

            It was a small space, filled almost entirely by her bed and the chest where she kept her clothes, as well as a small stash of rough paper and some charcoal wrapped in a cloth, her own small collection of artist’s supplies.  A small window stood over her bed, allowing just enough sunlight to keep her room bright during the day.  Small as her room was, Erika still loved it for the simple fact that it was her own.

            She sank onto the bed, the straw-stuffed mattress crackling under her weight.  For a moment she was still and quiet, even her thoughts stilled.  Until Vendetta’s voice popped up in her head, sudden and unbidden.

            _I clean my blades every time I use them.  Old habit, I guess, but it keeps them shiny_.

            Erika leaned over to the chest at the foot of the bed and quickly opened it.  Besides her clothes and art supplies, she kept some extra cloth in the chest, set aside to mend a dress or make a new one should the need arise.  She pulled her dagger out and carefully cut off a scrap.  She started to hum as she lifted the dagger and rag, but the tune died suddenly on her lips.

            On the edge of the blade was a small red smear.

            Erika sat for a long moment, staring at the stain.  She certainly had not cut herself; that she would certainly remember.  The dagger was on her person at all times, besides when she slept, and in the morning, it was always exactly where it had been.  But what else could that be but blood?

            Logan.  Logan had hissed almost as if he had been in pain during their spar.  She had been so certain she had nicked him with the blade.

            And maybe she had.  He had shown her his hand, and there had been no sign of injury.  Her blade argued otherwise.

            She had seen no proof that Logan was anything other than human, but in Genosha that was not always a safe assumption.  Perhaps Logan was like herself, and Vendetta, and Remy.  Perhaps he was more than human.  Perhaps he healed from a little scratch immediately.  He wouldn’t be the only person with such a talent.  The iron guard Creed healed quickly also.

            But what could that possibly mean?

            Erika turned her head to stare out the window.  She realized again that she was falling for a stranger, and feared what harm that could mean to her heart.


	18. Greensleeves

            Erika felt no true worry about performing “Greensleeves”.  She had lied through her teeth about not knowing it.  She had begged Vendetta to teach her the song shortly after their friendship had blossomed.  She did not perform it often; the song was popular across the narrow sea, but had yet to rise to fame in kingdoms such as Genosha.  The people wanted to hear the usual ballads that they already knew, not new and untested songs.  Rather, she had familiarized the song with Brownyn.  The two had sung it together more times than Erika could count, in public and in private.  It was always a lovely experience in Erika’s opinion.  Though their voices were very different, there was a simple pleasure in harmonizing with another person.

            So on the day of the contest, Erika entered the palace with utmost confidence.  She had practiced a final time in the morning with her parents as her audience.  They had both applauded her, particularly her father, who voiced his delight in her passion and pursuit of her desires.  It had warmed her to hear, even if her mother’s words lingered far longer than his.

            She was led to the same room as before to wait.  Dame Ameline was already there, resplendent in a dress of soft blue velvet.  The two men were also present; she recognized the one who stood in her defense earlier, a tall man with broad shoulders and a shadow of a beard.  The other man was a small and pretty man with a long fall of sunshine hair.

            Vivien suddenly swept up to Erika’s side, her hair braided and bound atop her head.  The girls smiled at each other, embracing in greeting.

            “How do you feel?” Erika asked, holding Vivien at arm’s length.  “You don’t look too troubled.”

            Vivien shrugged, her smile as bright as ever.  “You were right.  What happens is what’s meant to be.  I don’t expect to win this portion of the contest, but that’s all right.  I found a job at your tavern.  That’s more than I had before.”

            “I’m glad I could help you, then,” Erika replied with a smile of her own.

            “Ladies!” one of the men spoke up; both were approaching them.  The taller one seemed to be the one who spoke.  “Well met, Erika, Vivien.  I’m Branwell.”

            “A pleasure to meet you formally,” Erika said, nodding politely.  “I didn’t have the chance to thank you the other day for speaking in my favor.  I greatly appreciated it.”

            Branwell’s smile turned rueful as he stroked at his new beard.  “Someone has to keep churls in check.  Or at least try.”

            Vivien giggled beside her; Erika couldn’t quite stop herself either.  Erika saw Ameline glower at them but pointedly ignored her.

            “Come sit with us,” the other young man offered with a smile.  “It’s much more relaxing to talk with friendly company than fret over performing.”

            So they went and sat, well apart from Ameline.  Erika learned the other man’s name was Samuel.  He was the son of a wealthy merchant and had been singing since he was young.  His parents said his voice was as pure and sweet as angels.  Branwell, or Bran as he preferred to be called, was actually from a situation more like Vivien and Erika.  His father was a wood-carver.  He decorated chests and tables and chairs.  They were rich enough, but not particularly so.  Both men had joined the contest in hopes of winning the position, though Bran seemed relatively detached from it.

            Erika also learned more about Vivien through the conversation.  She knew the girl’s parents worked one of the nearby farms that were under protection from Einsemar, and that the crops had been low and her mother unwell.  Her mother had improved some since the beginning of the contest, though the doctor seemed to think she had far to go before recovering still.  Vivien mentioned her siblings, two older brothers and another younger.  She had started singing in the barn with the cattle; her voice had seemed to soothe the handful of cows during milking.  It had become a habit from there, and she had come to the competition on hope for employment and pay.  “Even if I fail now,” she said with a laugh, “I won’t mind.  The purse I’ll receive will be enough to pay the doctor for his services.”

            “What about you, Erika?” Bran asked, his arms draped over the back of the couch.  “God knows The Forest’s Glen is one of the best taverns in the city.  Surely you don’t need a purse or pay to make do.”

            “No,” Erika agreed.  It was true.  The tavern brought in plenty of money, ample amounts to buy food for themselves and their guests and make their drinks and pay their taxes, and then some left over to squirrel away for bad times.  “I just like singing.  I fell in love with it at a young age.  I was only ever taught by a travelling minstrel who showed me how to play and tune my instruments and sing on key.  I had to teach myself everything else.”

            “So you just want to be troubadour for the fun of singing?” Samuel asked.  “No dreams of grandeur or glory, no hopes of marrying a high lord that adores your voice?”

            Erika shook her head.  “Nothing like that.  I’ve dreamed of this many a year now.  I never thought the opportunity would come.”

            “Lucky you, then,” Bran said.  “It timed out perfectly.”

            “Why is he looking for a new troubadour anyway?” Vivien asked.  “Did he lose his?”

            “She’s with child,” Samuel offered.  “She wanted to stop singing to be with her husband and the child when it’s born.”

            “Fair circumstances all around, then,” the blonde said with a beaming smile.

            The door of the room opened.  “Lord Samuel Tyron, the king will see you,” a woman’s voice said.

            Samuel smiled to them as he stood.  “Good luck to you, friends.”  He nodded to them before slipping past.  Erika turned to watch him; he passed by Ameline without even a glance, even as she stared after him.  Then Samuel walked through the doorway and vanished from view.

            “Well, would you look there,” Bran remarked, his voice rising to fill the room more.  Ameline jerked her head around, fixing him with a cool look; the delicate creases of her brow betrayed her anger.  “The king does not call the lady first!  You must be as shocked as we are.”  Bran’s voice was a sharp whip that tore at the air.

            Ameline did not flinch from him.  Her chin lifted, her gaze gone haughty.  “His majesty is simply saving the best for last.”

            Branwell snorted faintly but offered no verbal reply.  He looked back to Vivien and Erika and shook his head.  “I doubt she’ll be last if that’s so.”

            Erika only offered a faint hum.  She simply had a bad feeling about Ameline.  While she had doubted anyone’s warnings that Vivien may become an opponent and that she could not be trusted, the words rang true for the lady.  There was something awful about her.

            Erika fell quiet after that.  While Bran and Vivien chattered away, Erika simply listened, only offering her input when it was required.  When the servant returned, Vivien was called.  Erika wished her luck with a tight hug.  Branwell followed later.  Erika made a point of ignoring Ameline entirely, and the lady returned the courtesy.

            Time seemed to drag once it was only them.  Erika ran through the lyrics for “Greensleeves” over and over, plucking at her skirt.  She could hear Ameline humming.  She fought to ignore how pretty even that sound was from her.

            After what felt like hours, the door opened again.  “Dame Ameline.”

            Erika threw a startled look first at the escort and then at Ameline.  Ameline sat frozen for a moment before she rose to her feet.  She looked even paler than before.  She went silently, and Erika was left alone in the room.

            Time seemed even slower as she sat by herself.  The room was unforgivingly silent.  Unable to stand it, Erika soon stood and began to walk around the room.  She hummed the song to herself in desperate hope of distracting herself from her anxiety.

            The door opened again.  “Erika Deforest.”

            She hurried across the room.  A surprised smile came to her as she recognized the girl.  “Hello, Elizabeth.”

            The girl smiled in return.  “You remembered me?”

            “Of course I did,” she smiled.

            Elizabeth beamed at her.  “I’m honored.  Come, the king would hear you sing.”

            They went quickly through the halls.  Soon Erika stood before the king, bowing again.  The king was joined once more by Lord Xavier and Lady Darkholme.

            “Hello again, Erika,” the king spoke.  “You’ve done well in the contest so far.  You have exceptional talent, particularly given you have had little training.”

            Erika blushed at the praise.  It was one thing for the common folk to say such things, but another entirely for the Iron King himself to speak so.  “Thank you, your majesty.  You honor me.”

            “I do,” he agreed.  “I am already certain that you shall proceed to the final stage.  We would appreciate if you would sing for us still.”  He waved his hand over to a harp.  “If you would please begin?”

            Erika bowed again before taking up the harp.  She plucked out the first few notes and soon began to sing.  Her voice rose clear and true, a touch of wistful sorrow in her words.

 

_Alas, my love, you do me wrong,_

_To cast me off discourteously._

_And I have loved you so long,_

_Delighting in your company._

_Greensleeves was all my joy_

_Greensleeves was my delight,_

_Greensleeves was my heart of gold,_

_And who but my lady greensleeves._

_Thy smock of silk, both fair and white,_

_With gold embroidered gorgeously;_

_Thy petticoat of sendal right,_

_And these I bought thee gladly._

_Greensleeves was all my joy_

_Greensleeves was my delight,_

_Greensleeves was my heart of gold,_

_And who but my lady greensleeves._

_I bought thee kerchiefs for thy head,_

_That were wrought fine and gallantly;_

_I kept thee at both board and bed,_

_Which cost my purse well-favoredly._

_I have been ready at your hand,_

_To grant whatever you would crave,_

_I have wagered both life and land,_

_Your love and good-will for to have._

_Greensleeves was all my joy_

_Greensleeves was my delight,_

_Greensleeves was my heart of gold,_

_And who but my lady greensleeves._

_Ah, Greensleeves, now farewell, adieu,_

_To God I pray to prosper thee,_

_For I am still thy lover true,_

_Come once again and love me._ __

            A least few notes on the harp and then the room was silent again.  A glance at her three listeners was all Erika needed to see to know she had proceeded.  Each wore their own unique sort of smile.  Erika opened her mind just enough to feel their pleasure at her voice.  Her tensions bled out and she smiled to them shyly.

            “Lovely as before,” the king said.  “You’ll be escorted to wait with the others.  Let them know we’ll be in as soon as we finish our decision.”

            Erika bowed.  “Thank you, your majesty,” she murmured.

            Elizabeth returned and led her away in silence.  Erika couldn’t keep from smiling to herself.  The king’s words gave her hope.  If he was so fond of her voice, why would he pick anyone else to be his troubadour?  It was simply illogical!

            As soon as she was led into the room, Vivien rushed over.  The blonde grabbed her in a fervent embrace.  “Ameline is furious,” she whispered in her ear.  “You’d best avoid her.”

            Erika nodded as she returned her friend’s hug.  She shot a quick glance over to the lady.  Her back was turned, her attention seemingly fixed on a tapestry.  Her anger pulsed off her in waves, palpable even to Erika’s sealed mind.

            “I’m worried,” Vivien whispered as she drew back.  “I know I won’t make the cut, and Bran doesn’t believe he will either.  Samuel is our only hope.  But if Ameline is picked . . . I worry what she might do.  I don’t trust her, Erika.  She might try to harm you.”

            “If that is so, I will declare such to his majesty,” Erika replied.  “He won’t stand by such behavior.”

            Vivien arched a brow.  “You really believe that when he killed the king before him and took his throne with no hesitation?”

            “I have to believe it,” Erika breathed out.  “It’s my only hope.”

***

            It seemed a second and an eternity to Erika before the Iron King entered the room.

            As soon as he stepped in, all of them fell still and silent.  The king’s presence commanded attention even in the simple attire he had donned.  He was dressed in dark gray linen with a long cloak trailing behind him.  The back of the cloak was black, but it was lined in red silk, a vibrant contrast to his simpler attire.  His crown gleamed in the light, shining golden among his dark hair.  An iron guard followed after him, armor gleaming, red cape cascading down his back.  Though she could not see his face, Erika knew it was not the guard Creed; the man was not tall enough, nor broad enough in his shoulders.

            “No need to bow,” the king said, waving a hand before any of them could rise and do so.  His eyes looked over them all for a moment, resting on each individual for a moment before moving to the next.

            “This has been a decision I have put much thought into,” the king finally continued.  “All of you have great talent; you would not have made it so far into my competition if you did not.  However, I can only choose two of you.  It was a difficult decision, but my companions and I came to a conclusion.

            “Erika Deforest and Dame Ameline shall proceed.”

            Erika’s relief and pride and pleasure at being chosen was marred by Ameline’s evident gloating.  It only worsened went she sent a look of daggers her way.  Erika lowered her eyes to the floor, not wanting to draw the lady’s attention to her any further.

            “I thank the three of you deeply for participating,” the king said to the others.  “I have purses ready for you, as a show of my gratitude.  Elizabeth will escort you.”

            Vivien slipped past Erika as she was led out, briefly squeezing her hand.  Erika held onto her as long as she could, desperate to keep the comfort of the contact.  Once Vivien had left, Erika felt suddenly and deeply alone.  There were no friends around her now, only a singular, burning enemy.  Would Ameline dare to strike out at her?

            A slight smile was on the king’s face.  “Congratulations to you both,” he said.  “Your voices are both wonderful to hear.  The final test shall be not of talent, but of performance.  All my court shall be in attendance, as well as some of my lower lords and ladies.  You shall each perform a song of your own choosing.  Whoever’s performance is better accepted shall be chosen.  Is this fair to you both?”

            “Perfectly, your majesty,” Ameline purred.  “It shall be a delight.”

            Erika nodded when the king looked upon her.  “Yes, your majesty.”

            “Good,” he replied.  “In three days you shall return here, at the same time you have been coming.  Don’t be late.  My guard shall escort you from the palace.  I wish you both the best of luck.”

            Erika and Ameline both curtsied a final time to the king.  He turned away with a swirl of his cloak and vanished through the doorway.  The guard motioned silently to the women, and they walked after him in silence.  Ameline refused to stand beside Erika, rather walking ahead of her and leaving Erika in the rear.  She didn’t mind; she would rather be able to see her opponent than have her at her back.

            The sun had sunk low in the sky once they exited the palace.  The guard left them with no hesitation.  Erika made to hurry across the courtyard to the gate, but Ameline suddenly grabbed her arm.

            “Ah, little Erika,” the lady purred.  “Such a mockery to have you as my competition.  You shouldn’t even bother coming to the final test.  You’ll lose, as simple as that.  And if you do come, I’ll make sure you lose.”

            Erika pulled her arm away with a jerk.  The words came pouring out of her in a flood she couldn’t stop.  “You’re far too confident, my lady.  His majesty told me personally that he had as good as decided I would proceed to this point before I even sang.  Did he say such to you?”

            Ameline’s cheeks were ablaze.  Against her pale pallor, her angry flush was as vivid as her ginger hair.  Her freckles stood out oddly against the red-tinged flesh.

            There was a sudden clap of sound as Erika’s face rocked to one side.  For a moment there was no feeling, and then the sting blossomed.  Her lower lip throbbed in protest; a quick swipe of her thumb produced a smear of blood.

            “You’ll regret this,” Ameline hissed.  With a swirl of her skirts, she turned and stalked away, leaving the palace courtyard with haste.

            Erika watched after her with a rueful smile.  The diva was not only furious, but also troubled and uncertain.  Ameline was not so certain of her triumph as she let on.  The thought made Erika bitterly pleased.


	19. The Cardinal and the Nightingale

            Erika paced fretfully across a small portion of the market square.  Her dress swirled around her every time she turned around.  Her hair fell in thick curls, still damp from being washed.  Castle market was quiet that afternoon.  Erika was almost alone, save for her companions.

            Vendetta had offered to accompany her, and Erika had gladly accepted her offer.  They had left early, Erika humming her song to herself the whole walk.  It had been a surprise to see both Remy and Logan waiting in a shadowed corner of castle market.  She hadn’t hesitated to run over and embrace them both.  They had allowed her to practice her song once, but only once.

            “Too many nerves if ya keep doin’ it,” Remy had drawled.  “And den you’ll mess up in de competition an’ beat yaself up over it.  No one wants dat.”

            So she paced instead.  It was almost time.  Her nerves only worsened every moment that passed.  She had never been nervous for the other stages; Erika was sure of her talent, confident in her abilities.  But Ameline had sowed a seed of doubt in her.  How could Erika possibly be worthy of such a station?  She was so common.  The palace was no place for someone like her!  Ameline was right; they all were right.  Erika was out of her place.

            “ _Chere_ ,” Remy said suddenly.  “Calm down.  Please.  You’re gonna get everyone upset here in a minute.”

            Erika winced, freezing in her spot.  “I’m sorry.”

            “Wot’s wrong?” Vendetta asked, her frown as sharp as any of the daggers hanging around her belt.  “You weren’t nervous like this any of the other times.”

            “It’s Ameline,” Erika replied, her voice a low mumble.  “She’s horrible.”  Her hand strayed up to her lip, pushing against the mostly healed cut on her lip.  Over the few days since the blow, it had healed well, leaving on a faint discoloring.  She still didn’t entirely understand how her words had earned her such a harsh strike.

            Logan stared at her too hard.  Erika dropped her hand abruptly, her gaze shying away from him.  She didn’t want him worrying about her, though the look on his face indicated that he knew more than she thought.  There was an anger there.

            “Horrible seems like an understatement,” Logan drawled.  His voice was much calmer than his expression, to Erika’s relief.  “But you’re gonna win.  It isn’t even a real contest.”

            Erika folded her arms around herself with a sigh.  “You don’t know that.”

            “No,” he agreed, “I don’t.  But if what you’ve said about her is true, the king would be a fool to pick her.  Besides, I believe I heard everyone at the tavern insist you have the best voice in the city.”

            “That’s wot they say,” Vendetta agreed with a grin.  “I’m there most nights.  Everyone wants to hear the songbird of the city.  Besides, you have a perfect song for yourself.  And you said the king likes your singing.  You’ve got an advantage.”

            “I don’t belong in a palace,” Erika replied, her voice lowered to little more than a whisper.  “I’m just a common wench, a tavern girl.  A palace will never be my place.”

            “Who cares?” the redhead replied.  “You have a gift, Erika.  The king knows tha’, or you wouldn’t be here now.  Social status is bullocks anyway,” she continued with a wave of her hand.  “Commoner, lord, king, we’re all people in the end.  Jus’ because that dame is a lady doesn’ mean she deserves the title more than you.  Especially since she acts like a bitch and no’ a lady.”

            A sharp laugh sprang from Erika before she could stop it.  “You really shouldn’t say things like that, V.”

            “Probably,” she grinned, “but I think I will anyway.”

            Erika laughed again, her shoulders finally dropping into a relaxed posture.  She planted her hands on her hips, chin lifting a little.  “I can do it,” she finally said.  “I can win this contest, and if I do, I’ll have earned it by talent, not title.”

            “That’s the spirit,” Remy said with a grin.  “Think it’s time for ya ta get goin’, though.  De summons is soon.”

            She nodded, brushing off her dress.  It was a dark dress dyed black but embroidered with roses around the hem of the skirt and sleeves.  A series of roses and thorns wound about her waist.  It was one of her few nicest dresses, all embroidered by her or her mother.  Around her neck hung a thin chain of silver, a family heirloom.  If there were ever a day Erika needed to look her best, today was it.

            Her friends – for that was what they all were now, no matter how well or poor she knew them yet – wished her a last bit of luck and farewell before Erika turned away and started across the market.  She heard them parting ways behind her, but paused when she suddenly heard her name.  She turned, frowning, but was quick to smile when she saw it was Logan who lingered.

            They both walked towards the other, though Erika had to use all her will to keep from running.  In seconds Logan had his arms around her in a nearly crushing hug.  The warmth of his body bled into hers, making her shiver and sigh pleasantly.

            “Be careful around Ameline today,” he said softly.  His thumb brushed over the spot where her lip had been split open by the lady’s striking hand.  “She’s scared.  She’ll lash out.”

            “I try to be careful,” Erika replied.  She shifted away from the pressure of his touch. The spot on her lip was still a bit sore.

            His hand brushed her hair back from her face with a few gentle strokes.  “That’s all I can ask.”  Logan bent his head, kissing her gently, careful not to hurt her.  Erika clung to him tighter, wanting the moment to last forever.

            Logan didn’t linger though, drawing back from her.  “Go on.  You’ll be fine.  Just don’t stress yourself out.”

            “That I can’t promise,” she said with a slight laugh.  She smiled though as Logan stroked his hands down her arms.  The brief touch of his fingers across her hands made her skin tingle.  She lingered for a moment as Logan left, but she knew that it would soon be time for her to appear at the palace.  Erika turned away and hurried down the streets.

            As promised, one of the guards at the palace entry took her inside.  He walked swiftly, forcing Erika to hitch up her skirt so she could lengthen her stride without fear of tripping.  To Erika’s surprise, she was not let to the usual parlor that she had expected; rather, the guard took her directly to the throne room.

            The king’s throne was not alone at the end of the long room.  A long trestle table sat below the throne, at which sat all the lords of the king’s Iron Court.

            The Iron Court described the most prominent figures in the royal palace.  Most notable were the eight lords and ladies of the king’s council and inner court.  These were the last of the original ten families that had founded the kingdom.  Their names were known by all inhabitants of Genosha: Xavier, Darkholme, Summers, Drake, McCoy, Frost, Pryde, and Ravyn.  Not all families made the council every reign, but most monarchs had chosen many of the noble houses to aid them.  Those who would not be on the council were still included in the royal court.  Lehnsherr had been the first in recent history to include all remaining families on his council; perhaps it was due to him being the last of his own family, which had once been one of the finest founding families.

            The Iron Court in whole encompassed a few other positions: the iron guard, the palace physician, and a master of magics.  Erika could easily see a few of the iron guards, both in armor and out, all easily recognizable by their beautiful armor, red cloaks, and impressive blades.  The palace physician and master of magics were also present.  Both were women, seated on one end of the long table the lords sat at, recognizable by their slightly less fine garments.  One was a pale woman with long red hair wearing a green dress with gold accents.  The other was a dark skinned woman.  Her blue eyes and thick white hair were a shock against her dark complexion, but the image was one of wild beauty.

            The sides of the throne room were also occupied by other lords and ladies of varying rank.  Erika had never seen the room so busy.  And to think all of them would hear her sing . . .

            But was it really any different from singing in the tavern.  Certainly this was higher society, and she doubted any of them were mindlessly drunk, but they were still people.  All they wanted was to hear a good song.  That was something Erika could easily deliver.

            Head held high, Erika walked down towards the end of the room.  The chatter and laughter of the audience meant nothing to her.  If their humors were turned to her, it didn’t matter.  They were here to see the conclusion of this contest, and whatever the result would be, Erika would take it graciously.

            The guard led her over to where Dame Ameline stood, slightly off from where all the lords sat.  The lady was groomed to excellence, her ginger hair ornately braided with strands of silver.  Her dress, a soft shade of green, complimented her coloring.  Behind her stood an elderly man and his younger wife; from their coloring and freckles, Erika assumed them to be the dame’s parents, whatever small ranking lord and lady they were.

            Ameline’s eyes fell upon her.  Erika was greeted with a laugh as she stopped a few steps away from her.  “My goodness, Erika,” Ameline said, her hand coquettishly falling to the large necklace on her breast, “you look like a commoner!  Oh . . . I suppose that would be because you are.  I’m afraid no little embroidered dress and tiny metal chain will change your status, or make you belong.”

            Erika blinked at her slowly.  It was a force of will to remain calm under her words.  Ameline was right; the tavern girl was far out of her league.  They all knew that, yet she was still graced to be in the contest.  Erika smiled to herself, turning abruptly away from Ameline to look instead at the throne room and the people in it.  To be a commoner in the palace was a far greater accomplishment than to be a lady, no matter how low ranking among the noble families.

            Erika observed the room for a while.  Behind her Ameline continued to chatter, raising her voice to make the occasional barb at her opponent.  Erika never turned to acknowledge her, simply standing with hands folded before her as she admired the pretty dresses and doublets and jewels all around her.  She felt people looking at her, saw some of them sneer and others simply move on.  Erika closed her eyes, steadying her breathing.  It would not bother her.  She would not let it.

            Movement to her left drew Erika’s attention.  The Iron King was standing up from his throne, one hand raised.  The assemblage fell into silence, all eyes turning upon the king and his assembled council.

            “I thank you all for coming,” the king spoke.  His voice rang clearly through the large room.  “Tonight the new palace troubadour shall be chosen.  My past troubadour has retired to be with her husband as they begin their own family.  While we are happy for her, she will be missed, and has left a necessary position open.

            “Tonight we fill that space.  We shall hear a song, individually chosen by my final two contestants.  This song must show not only talent in singing and playing, but the ability to convey emotion through music.  A troubadour does not only entertain, but makes their audience feel their story.”  The king turned his gaze upon the two women.  “We shall begin now.  Ameline, I would have you perform first.”

            “As you wish, your majesty.”  Ameline strode out to the center of the room where a large harp stood.  Ameline curtsied to the king before sitting on the offered stool.  Ameline began to play with no hesitation, the music lively, something well suited for a celebration.  Erika frowned slightly.  She knew countless songs, but this was not one she recognized.

            Ameline began to sing, and Erika listened attentively, not to her words but to her voice.  The lady’s voice was fine, certainly, thought not overly strong.  Her voice was a high soprano, pretty enough, but Erika felt her pronunciation could use improvement; some words failed to come forth clearly.  Though the audience seemed to enjoy the song, Erika kept herself reserved, her reactions schooled into a vague interest.  She was certainly more interested in the reactions of the king and his court.

            None of them particularly showed their feelings towards Ameline’s singing.  Even as she finished they offered nothing more than polite praise.  Ameline treated it as if it were the finest gem in her collection, waltzing back to her parents with it.  They preened over her with little to no restraint.  Ameline threw a smug smile at Erika.

            “Such a shame your parents couldn’t be here,” the lady said softly.  “But it’s bad enough to have a commoner like yourself here.  Two more would be a disgrace.”

            “It is only a disgrace if you care about it,” Erika replied.  “Our only differences is that you have more money than I do, and you’re far less polite than I am.”  Without waiting for a reply, Erika made her way over to the harp as she was announced.

            There was a faint susurrus of whispers from the crowd, but they did not last.  Erika brushed them aside.  She was more attentive of the harp.

            It was much larger than her own, but the mechanics were no different.  Erika sat down, spreading out her skirt both for comfort and to show the delicate embroidery she had worked so hard on.  Settled, she drew the harp against her.

            Her fingers moved delicately, plucking the strings for the opening notes.  She had chosen her song for the express purpose of meeting the criteria of the stage.  The song allowed her voice to flourish to its fullest potential and reached across much of her vocal range.  Though a far less cheerful than Ameline’s bright performance, she had on numerous occasions drawn tears to the eyes of her listeners with the song.  The king wanted feeling, and he would have it.

            With a deep breath, Erika began to sing, her voice pouring out slow and sweet.

 

_“’Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone,_

_All her lovely companions are faded and gone._

_No flower of her kindred, no rose bud is neigh_

_To reflect back her blushes or give sigh for sigh._

_“I’ll leave thee though lone one to pine on the stem_

_Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep now with them._

_Thus kindly I scatter they leaves o’re the bed_

_Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead._

_“So soon may I follow when friendships decay_

_And from love’s shining circle the gems drop away._

_When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown,_

_Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone?”_

 

            The last few notes were plucked out from under her fingers before trailing into silence.  Erika sighed to herself, closing her eyes tight as she fought not to tremble.  She had done all she could, truly.

            The cheers and applause came suddenly and loud as thunder.  Erika startled to her feet, eyes skipping around the faces.  There were smiles and tears and far more than a little admiration.  A smile flew to her, though she bowed her head against it to retain her modesty.  Erika curtsied deeply to the king and court before hurrying to her former position.

            Ameline wore a furious blush as Erika approached.  The lady stormed forward the last few steps; Erika froze in surprise at the look of sheer anger on her face.

            “You bitch,” Ameline hissed under her breath.  “So smug in your little performance!  You’re no better than anyone else!  I told the king that Branwell had been rude to me, that he had caused my last performance to be poor.  He was cast out of the contest because of that, and you were chosen instead, you stupid wench.  I can do the same to you!”

            Erika grinned at her, one hand falling thoughtlessly to her dagger.  Her lip smarted where Ameline had struck her a few days back.  “You could, yes.  But you’ve been constantly more cruel to me than I have been impolite to you.  And it is you who struck my face.  The king has not ignored me for my place in society yet; I doubt he would begin now just because you’re afraid.”

            Ameline’s hands balled into fists.  “We’ll see about that.”  She turned away and stormed back to her parents.  The lord and lady shot Erika a harsh look, but she only smiled and lifted her chin.  _Let them be mad at me.  They can’t do anything to me now._

            The king had descended from his throne to talk among his court members.  He went to them individually, bent close so they could whisper in secret.  The acoustics of the room were complex; while a raised voice was amplified throughout the room, a whisper was unintelligible.  Erika watched the king travel down the table.

            The members of the Iron Court were a vision to behold.  Many claimed that everyone in the Iron Court was gifted, much like the Iron King himself.  While all of the lords and ladies looked like any other person in the city, Erika knew better than to believe that meant nothing.  Only one of them gave any indication that they may be any more than normal; one of the ladies, dressed in a gown of green and white, had peculiarly colored hair; while her hair was mostly brown, a shock of white was parted to frame her face.  Lady Anna-Marie Ravyn, if Erika remembered correctly.

            The king stopped at Lord Xavier last.  His hand fell lightly on his shoulder, eliciting a small smile from the young lord.  Erika watched with baited breath, though she couldn’t particularly see the words that they formed.  Xavier finally inclined his head ever so slightly towards Ameline, causing the king to glance over as well.

            Ameline was too caught up in her preening to notice, but Erika saw, and her heart sank.  She had been so certain she could count on Xavier to approve of her singing.  He had been so kind to her when she had joined the contest, offering her all the hope she could desire.  Was he throwing his vote behind Ameline after all?

            The Iron King returned to his throne, sitting down slowly.  The two rings he wore flashed as he drummed his fingers.  Clearly he was dwelling for a moment on his decision.  Erika watched him, barely daring to draw breath in case movement would attract his attention and he would realize that she didn’t-

            _No.  No thinking that way anymore.  I have the talent, I belong as much as her._

            “Ameline, Erika,” the king spoke.  “Step forward, please.”

            Ameline led the way as she always did, Erika trailing just after.  Both sank into a curtsy to the king.  The king made a brusque, impatient gesture.  Erika frowned, looking closely at the king, reaching out with her power to try and feel him.  She met a vague sense of agitation, perhaps even anger.  She dropped her gaze hurriedly, teeth catching on the inside of her cheek.

            “You have both done well,” the king said briskly, finally folding his hands.  “And you are both talented singers.  However, something has been drawn to my attention by my right hand, Lord Xavier.”

            Ameline lifted her chin.  Erika looked at her askance, hating the smug smile she wore.

            “Dame Ameline,” the king intoned.  “According to my lord’s observance, you threatened to cheat, to lie about your opponent so you could win the contest.  Is this true?”

            Ameline’s mouth gaped open.  Erika knew she was wearing a likewise shocked expression, but for far different reasons.  Xavier was defending her!  Ameline was going to lose without a doubt!

            “Your majesty,” Ameline spluttered, “I did not _threaten_ the girl!  She said very rude things to me before we sang-”

            “Such a coincidence that you spoke the same words about Branwell earlier,” the king cut in.  His voice had gone cold and harsh.  “Were you going to cheat and lie to me, your king?”

            “Your majesty, please, let me-”

            The king flew to his feet and lashed a hand forward, palm open briefly before he made a sharp fist.  Ameline fell into silence with a faint whimper.  Erika gasped, gaping as the lady’s fancy necklace rose off her breast and pulled taut against the back of her neck.  Ameline trembled, her eyes damp with tears.

            “Explain yourself,” the king replied.  He descended slowly from his dais.  His voice was as biting as a winter wind and as cold as ice.  “Speak the truth!”

            Xavier stood suddenly, one hand pressing against his chest.  “Erik, please,” he hissed.

            The king lingered a moment, his jaw a hard line.  His fist uncurled suddenly, hand dropping to his side.  Ameline’s necklace fell back to her breast as she sobbed, covering her face in shame.

            “Mercy, your majesty, please!” the lady sobbed.  “It’s this competition, I only wanted to win!”

            “Leave,” the king spat.  “You have acted dishonorably, Dame Ameline, for selfish purposes.  This shame and dishonor are punishment enough; I hope you have learned something from this.”

            Ameline turned and fled from the throne room, her parents following after.  Erika stood frozen, not daring to watch her competition’s flight of shame.  Her attention was fixed warily on the king.  How many times had her friends, new and old, told her to be wary of the palace court, or the king?  They were right all along.

            The king seemed tired.  Xavier still stood by him; the lord’s face was shuttered into an unreadable expression.  Erika couldn’t look away from them.

            “Erika Deforest,” the king spoke after a pause.  “You have shown great talent in this competition.  No one here can deny that your singing is both beautiful and passionate.  It is because of this that I am choosing you to be my new troubadour, should you accept the position.”

            There was an unspoken understanding.  He knew that his outburst had altered her opinion of him, that she may not wish to be in a place where such behavior may arise.  It was her choice now to accept or decline with grace.

            Erika looked around the room, taking in the watchful gazes, the beautiful art and glass windows.  Her eyes stung; relief, delight, and fear all swarmed through her.  How could she ever say no to all she had dreamed of?

            Erika sank into a deep bow.  She may as well have sat on the floor.  “I would be honored, your majesty.”

            The applause was overwhelming.  Erika stood with her head bowed, the picture of modesty; but she only wanted to hide her tears.

***

            The sky was a dark blue, star-flecked dome as Erika trudged through the streets back towards her home.  The rest of the evening had been a long, arduous affair.  Everyone in the room had had to congratulate her on her singing, on her new position, on her poise with Ameline and how graciously she had handled it.  Erika had only smiled and nodded and uttered a modest ‘thank you, you’re too kind’ over and over and over until she felt as if she were no longer a true living being.  It was good to be free, and to let herself cry if only for a moment.

            Her victory tasted bittersweet.  Ameline’s disgrace had, in some sense, been satisfying.  Erika felt nothing positive towards the lady, not after all her harsh words, but she had been thoroughly disgraced.  And just what had she gotten herself into?  The king was a creature of rage on the inside.  What if that rage fell upon her?  She would have to tread with great caution.

            But nothing stopped her from feeling some happiness.  After all, her dreams were on the cusp of reality.  She was to return to the palace tomorrow for a more formal tour and to learn more about the expectations of her new position.  Already a heavy purse hung on her belt, cupped by her palm to keep it safe.  It had to at least be the amount of coin the tavern made in a month, if not more.  It was magic brought to life.

            The voices seeping out of the tavern seemed louder that night than usual.  Erika stopped between one of the windows and the door to rub at her eyes and put on a smile.  Everyone would want to hear the good news, and there would be even more congratulating, but she hoped she could at least sit down for it this time.

            The door gave way easily under her hand.  Erika halted as soon as she stepped inside, staring with wide eyes at the room.  The tavern was quite large by the standards of most buildings, with an open floor that made it seem even larger.  Tonight it was packed full of more people than Erika had ever seen.  She saw Vendetta’s shock of red hair darting around tables to serve food and drink, helping poor, swamped Vivien.  She spotted Remy, easy to see with his height, and next to him was Logan.  Erika recognized many others, regular customers who had known her for years, neighbors, her aunt and uncle and cousins.  So many people; it was well beyond overwhelming.

            “There she is!” someone cried out over the conversations.  The silence was so sudden it made Erika’s ears ring.

            She looked around at all the excited faces.  She wanted little more than to shove through them and stagger upstairs, strip down to her smock and collapse into bed to sleep.  Instead she took a deep breath and shoved the words out of herself, intelligent but to the point: “I won.”

            The burst of cheers was so loud and ribald that Erika flinched.  No one seemed to notice.  Rather they swept forward to swamp her with their congratulations.  Erika thanked them as best she could, her tongue tripping over her teeth.

            Erika was pulled free of the crush of people suddenly.  Her smile finally turned genuine as Vivien embraced her.  Uncle Christophe hugged her tight after, then her aunt and each of her three cousins.  Her parents swept in and Erika began to cry, clinging to them for a long moment.  She wanted to tell them about the purse hanging so heavily on her dress, how they wouldn’t have to work so hard, but she couldn’t speak beyond her tears.

            Her father stroked her hair slowly, speaking in a low, sweet voice that Erika could just remember soothing her when she had been so young and the war had raged.  “It’s all right, songbird,” he said so sweetly.  “We’re so proud of you.  But you’re so tired.  Go up to bed, dear one.”

            A last kiss on her cheek from each parent before the released her.  Erika hurried to the stairs.  She caught Vendetta’s eye and motioned her to follow with a quick wave of her hand and a grin.  Her parents would be busy for a while still and wouldn’t notice if a friend or three came up for a moment.

            She wasn’t surprised when Logan and Remy accompanied her friend, but she made sure to usher them in quickly.  Erika sank back against the door, head collapsing against the wood and eyes drooping shut.

            “We won’ stay long,” Vendetta assured her, “but we wanted to get in our own hugs and whatnot.”

            “That’s all right,” Erika mumbled.  “I’m just tired.  It’s been . . . quite the day.”  She stood up straighter, pawing at her eyes.

            “Did Ameline go out in a burning flame of embarrassment?” Vendetta asked.  She sounded far too eager to know.

            “Oh yes,” Erika replied.  “It was sad in a way.  She threatened me, in front of king and council, quietly yes, but somehow Lord Xavier heard her.  He told the king, and he was so very mad.  He disgraced her in front of everyone.  It didn’t help that she all but admitted to cheating and then tried to lie, but she was so upset.”

            “She earned it,” Logan said simply.  “She _hit_ you.”

            “Deserved more’n tha’,” Vendetta snapped.  “Someone should teach her anothah lesson or two in mannahs.”

            Erika shook her head wearily.  “The shame is enough.  You look thoughtful, Remy; what is it?”

            “Xavier,” Remy replied.  “De fact he overheard is interesting.  I doubt he would’ve in normal circumstances, so de lord must have used his own gifts.  Mind reading,” Remy expanded before any of them asked.  “Dat’s what dey say, at least.  He must have been in de mind of one of you, or someone nearby, and heard t’rough their ears.  It’s interesting dat he’d want ya ta win.”

            “At least he has good taste in singing,” Vendetta replied.  “Our favorite songbird wins and now gets to sing for the court.”

            “Not just any songbird,” Erika said softly.  “A nightingale.  The cardinal may be a prettier bird, but the nightingale has the sweeter song.”  She trailed off into a lengthy yawn, covering her mouth with her hand.  “But I’m sorry.  I’m happy to see you all here, but I’m so tired.”

            “Get some sleep, _chere_ ,” Remy said with a smile.  He stepped forward first, hugging her for a quick moment.  “You’ve earned it.”

            They each offered her congratulations and wished her goodnight.  She relished each of their hugs, for their warmth and comfort.  Though she may not have known Remy or Logan as well as Vendetta, she was so happy to know them, and hoped to know them better soon.  And Vendetta, who had been such a wonderful friend the past couple years, who had supported her wishes to sing since she first mentioned them to her.  Erika wasn’t surprised to find herself crying again as the redhead hugged her fierce and tight.

            As Erika lay down to sleep that night, she knew she was the luckiest girl in the kingdom.


	20. The Palace

            Erika hastened through the city streets, skirt hitched up above her ankles, slippers flashing from beneath the bright folds.  Her hair fluttered and bounced around her face as she scampered into the more open space of castle market.  The fountain burbled at her, encouraging her to hurry even more.  Her morning chores had run later than she expected, and she was afraid of being late for her first day as the palace troubadour.

            The thought still thrilled her deeply.  Her dream, a reality!  She had pinched herself a few times already, repeated checks of whether or not it was a dream she was living in.

            But if she were late it would be taken away.  Her steps quickened, nearly at a run across the market.  She ignored the sharp glares and words that the members of higher society threw at her as she ducked by them.  She had more important concerns than the opinion of the gentry.

            The portcullis and drawbridge were open and guarded by regular knights.  Erika slowed to a calmer walk, chin lifted with dignity.  She swept a gaze over the guards, wondering who would escort her to where she was wanted in the palace.

            It was no guard.  To Erika’s surprise, Lord Xavier stepped out of the shadows of the guard house.  The young lord was smiling warmly, and he raised a hand in greeting to her.  Erika drifted forward, stopping a few steps away to curtsy.

            “You honor me, my lord,” she spoke.

            “It’s the reward you deserve for standing up to Ameline, and putting up with her.”  Xavier’s smile tightened.  “I do apologize for her.  Had we known sooner, she would have been cast out.”

            “We can’t know everyone’s plans,” Erika replied with a slight shrug.  “She wanted to win and would do anything for it.  Her actions were not predictable, and you shouldn’t feel guilty for it.  I would have heard her words from someone else in time.”

            “Unfortunate, but true.  People can be most unkind.”  Xavier sighed to himself, but brightened to a smile.  “But congratulations on succeeding.  Erik is most pleased with your singing, and that you accepted.  I volunteered to give you a tour of the palace today.”

            “That’s most kind of you, my lord.”  Erika tried to mask her surprise.  One of the finest lords in the land, showing her around the palace?  It was unbelievable!  She was glad to have a tour, but she had expected one of the king’s servants to show her around.  This was an unprecedented honor.

            Xavier smiled, bowing his head as he extended an arm to her.  “It’s certainly my pleasure.  Come, there’s much to see and only so much time in a day.”

            Erika took his arm with a word of thanks and let the lord take the lead.  The palace was a vast, sprawling structure, not only long but also tall.  The main structure composed of the public rooms; the throne room and dining hall, and other large rooms that served a variety of variable functions.  Most of those rooms were like the ones Erika had waited in during the contest.  They were occupied with fine furniture, paintings or tapestries, thick rugs, and sometimes books.

            Between rooms, Xavier spoke of the palace and its history.  Though the narrative was broken by the occasional pause to talk about a specific room, Erika was thoroughly intrigued by what the young lord told her.

            “This palace has been here through all of recorded history, and likely longer,” he spoke.  “It was built by our first king, and was first little more than these first rooms.  The king’s council only had four lords the stories say, and no one knows where any of the palace staff lived.  The city began as a sprawl of farms seeking shelter in the castle’s shadow; a glorified fiefdom, really.  After the first king, it was some time before the castle began to be expanded into the palace we see now.  Over centuries, opulence was introduced to the halls in chandeliers, paintings, tapestries, exquisite woodwork; more rooms were added for an expanding court and services, not to mention the king’s personal quarters were expanded into a suite of rooms.”

            Xavier spoke of some of the best builders to work on the palace, and the artists whose work decorated the rooms and halls.  She let herself admire the craftsmanship he pointed out, but her mind wandered to whether her father’s work could possibly be worthy to grace the structure.  It was not until he led her into a vast room that Erika’s attention was once again thoroughly rapt.

            “Here it is!”  Xavier’s voice betrayed that he was also excited by the contents of the room.  The far wall was dominated by a a series of large tapestries, upon whose surfaces names and lines were stitched.

            “Each of these represents one of the ten founding families.  We’ve kept them all up in respect – even the lost family.  Such a tragedy,” he said softly.  Erika glanced at him and saw that his expression bore a small frown.  She followed his gaze to one of the earliest banners. The final name was James.

            “The last lord and lady were massacred over a hundred and fifty years ago,” Xavier said, his voice soft and sorrowing.  “Their son James was never found.  It is possible he lived and that the line continues to this day, but no one knows for sure.

            “Of course, all the other nine lines are still living, to a degree.  Our king is the last of the Lehnsherr’s; another massacre, though thankfully a loyal guard saved him.  When he marries and has children, his line will once more be as secure as the rest of ours.”

            “Your house is one of the longest,” Erika said softly, nodding towards the vast banner that bore the Xavier tree.  It took a studious eye to find Charles Xavier’s name on it.

            “I belong to one of the oldest noble houses in Genosha’s history.”  His pride in that claim was evident, and well deserved.  The Xaviers had always been admired throughout history.

            “Genosha was broken originally into ten fiefdoms,” he expanded, “one for each of the original houses.  A king ruled over us all, but within the fiefdoms, each house was charged with maintaining justice, safety, and ensuring all and everyone was well.  It remains this way still, but with more fiefdoms as new lording families have been established.  Of course, you may not be interested in such talk of history and politics . . .”

            “Oh, no,” Erika countered quickly.  “It’s all very interesting, if a bit past my understanding at times.  Are there paintings of the past lords and ladies, kings and queens?”

            Xavier smiled at her.  “I’m not surprised you ask that.  You seem to have quite an admiration for art.  There are old paintings; they’re quite valuable however, so we keep them in the treasury.  Perhaps another day someone could show them to you, if you like.

            “But that can’t be today unfortunately.  We’ve finished our tour of the most important rooms, though you’re welcome to come and explore at your own leisure.  I didn’t want to tell you immediately as I worried it might give you undue stress.  Of course you know that our past troubadour left because of her pregnancy.  We were so quick to find a new one because there is an upcoming feast, in seven days, to celebrate the king’s birthday.  There should be enough time for you to have a dress made and to practice a few songs and poems to perform.”  Xavier offered a sheepish smile.  “I do apologize for the short notice, it was not our intent to spring this upon you so quickly.”

            Erika shook her head.  “It’s no trouble, really.  I’m used to performing whenever asked, so I have plenty of material I can work with.  But you mentioned a dress being made-”

            “Just one of the perks of being the troubadour.  The royal tailor will prepare a gown for you, no cost.  She’s here today if you have time to start the fitting.”

            “I do, I’d love to start,” Erika offered.  “Thank you for the tour, my lord.  You didn’t have to yourself.”

            Xavier smiled, his teeth radiant.  “I wanted to, Erika.  You’re a special woman, anyone would be lucky to have time with you.”

***

            Evening was settling over the city as Erika left the palace.  She was still thinking about the fabrics for her dress.  The tailor had been incredibly sweet, talking Erika through the process of fitting her, showing her an array of colors and fabrics to choose from.  It had been almost overwhelming, but she had finally settled on purple silk and sheer fabric of sky blue.  The seamstress seemed to already have perfect ideas of what to do with the material.  When Erika had left, she was furiously sketching a few designs that Erika could choose from at her next visit.

            She would be returning throughout the week to have her dress worked on and to practice within the dining hall of the palace.  It was a daunting thought to perform officially before the noble class, but Erika had faith in herself.  How different could it be from performing for a room full of mostly drunk men?

            Castle market was quiet as Erika crossed the open space, her slippers pattering on the cobbles.  The large fountain still ran.  Erika paused by it, studying its shape.  It was much larger than the fountain in her usual market, but no more or less pretty.  Still, it was impressive enough for a look.

            A shadow fell over part of her back, accompanied by a dark and looming presence.  Erika stiffened, her eyes darting around the marketplace.  There were a few shops nearby that people will still milling in.  If she had to scream, she would be heard.  Settled and feeling at least somewhat secure, Erika turned around.

            She was dazzled temporarily by the highly polished metal.  Erika raised a hand to block the light, but she already knew who it was.

            “Hello, songbird,” Creed spoke.  Erika shivered at his sharp-toothed grin.  “Congratulations are in order, I believe.  His majesty has chosen you as his new bird to cage.”

            “Considering I am leaving the palace tonight, I would not say I am caged,” Erika replied.  As much as she wanted to snap out a farewell and leave, she knew her place.  The iron guards were not known to be the most fair at times.

            “Fair enough.”  Creed fell quiet, head inclined faintly to one side as he regarded her.  “You’d do well to remember that it’s safe to keep to yourself.”

            Erika shifted backwards from him.  “What do you mean?”

            “I mean to mind your own business,” he growled.  Erika flinched from the sound.

            “Now there, pretty thing; don’t be so frightened.”  Creed’s voice mocked gentleness, and only served to worsen her anxiety.  “I won’t hurt you; the king wouldn’t like that, and neither would your so-called friends.  Odd company you keep, girl.  Do you even know who you walk and talk with these days?  The woodsman is awfully rough for you.  And Vendetta,” he sneered, “with her childish insistence on that stupid name.  And the southerner.  You need to guard yourself closely with all of them, but with that thief you need to guard your back, too.  You wouldn’t be the first person he let be stabbed in the back.”

            “You don’t know them,” Erika countered.  She had meant the words to be bold, but they came out as barely more than a tremble of sound.  What did he possibly mean by any of that?

            Creed grinned, fangs flashing in the evening light.  “You don’t know them, either.  Not really.  You’re an open book about who you are, but they’re all silent on their pasts.  What other reason is there unless it’s something horrible?”

            Erika balled her hands into fists.  She turned away quickly, walking away.  “Leave me alone, Victor Creed,” she called back over her shoulder.

            “As you wish, songbird,” Creed growled in return.  “But when you get hurt or abandoned by them, just remember I tried to warn you.”

            Erika only walked faster, trying to outrun the chills skipping down her back.


	21. Spies

            The last week of spring kept Erika busy.  In the mornings she ran errands for her parents, buying goods in the market and cleaning around the tavern or their modest home above it.  Around high noon, she would head to the palace.  There she practiced a repertoire of songs, poems, and stories she would perform at the feast.  The dining hall of the palace carried her voice in a different way, but she adjusted to it quickly.  She sounded even better there than at home.

            Most importantly, Erika began to meet others who served the king and court, as well as members of the court.  The palace workers were some of the most polite and proper people Erika had ever met.  They bowed to everyone, though the slight dip of their bodies that they offered to Erika was nothing compared to the elaborate displays shown to the king and his court.  Still, they were kind to her, giving her directions when she became too twisted in the still unfamiliar halls, and offering conversation when she wanted it.

            The members of the court were far more variable.  The iron guards she met in the palace halls were all stoic and unfriendly.  Erika counted eight individuals.  They often worked in shifts of two a day and were never far from the king.  Erika had been surprised to see that two of the guards were women.  They were a bit more friendly than Creed and his men, but not much.

            The regular guards were far too many to count.  They were even less prone to chatter than the iron guards, though they would escort Erika to and from places if she asked.  Their chill persona drove Erika to keep her distance, surely to their delight.

            The lords and ladies were the most surprising, though.  Of course Xavier had already proved himself friendly, but Erika had not expected any of the others to pay her any mind.  While not all of the lords and ladies were as friendly as him, they all did acknowledge her and introduce themselves.  Even the king spoke to her on the few occasions that they crossed paths.  Sometimes it was hard to remember that he had been so filled with rage on the final day of the contest.  He seemed like an entirely different man, particularly when he and Xavier were together.  There was kindness in him, evidenced by the way he always inquired after Erika and her family, if they were living comfortable and healthy, and how he would ensure she was comfortable and at ease in his palace.  It was touching, and relieving, to see that he was not constantly full of rage.  Or perhaps he was and had simply mastered control of it, only letting it out when it aided him.

            After her afternoons in the palace, Erika returned home to help at the tavern for the night.  The tavern had grown even busier since she became troubadour, and most nights were hectic.  Erika obliged requests to sing with good nature and enthusiasm, and often coerced Vivien to join her for a duet.  Vivien had grown to be adored in the patrons’ eyes just as much as Erika was.  Her sunny demeanor aided her in that.

            All was well, except Erika was busier than she liked to be.  She could only squeeze in brief conversations with her friends at odd moments.  Vendetta she saw often, either performing her street shows in the market in the morning or at the tavern in the evening.  As always, Vendetta was her first and foremost confidant about everything.  Once Remy joined her at the tavern, and Erika chatted with them both.  And on one occasion Logan and Remy came together, and ultimately had been joined by Vendetta.  The tension that had first threaded between Vendetta and Logan had seemingly vanished since the day in the forest, and the three talked and joked and laughed among themselves.  Erika watched them from the outside, feeling oddly and suddenly out of place.  But every time she passed by, they managed to rope her into their conversation, and the feeling would dissipate.

            It was Logan she saw least of them, and it left a strange ache in her chest.  She had seen him only one other time in that week, only for a moment in the market.  They had passed each other, both busy about their day, but the heat of his gaze meeting hers had been a haunting presence since.  She hadn’t been able to push it from her mind.

            But the week was almost over, and summer was finally touching the land.  The sun ruled the sky, the crops grew, all seemed well.  Erika’s dress for her first official performance was finished, fitting as perfect as a dream.  She was as ready as she could be, and with two days to spare.  She felt no guilt as she skipped visiting the palace that day, instead making her way to Vendetta’s house as soon as she had finished with her duties at home.  It would be good to have a genuine conversation with her best friend.

            She had dressed in her simplest clothes; a long, white dress, loose and baggy all over, with a leather underbust worn over top.  The thick straps and tight cinching kept the loose material from slipping too far down her bust.  It still revealed a fair amount of skin on her chest and shoulders, but it certainly was no inappropriate amount.  An ample draping of pink fabric served as her proper skirt, tucked and folded over her girdle both to stay in place and to form a variety of small pockets.  Logan’s dagger hung at her hip, as it always did, and always would.

            Erika looked like the common wench that Ameline had repeatedly called her, but she didn’t mind.  It was who she was at the end of the day, and she saw no shame in it.

            Erika stopped outside of Vendetta’s house, looking up in the windows to see if her friend was in sight.  She saw no sign of her, but the window was open.  Vendetta never left it open when she was out.  Erika felt confident in approaching the door.  A quick test of the handle proved the door was unlocked, further proving Vendetta must be home.  Erika opened the door and slipped in, taking a breath to call out and ask if she could come upstairs.

            Except Vendetta wasn’t alone.

            “Oldgarde.  Lausau.  Hallheim.  Vollstadt.”

            A pause.  Then, “Those are all the places it’s happening?”

            Erika frowned, closing the door as softly as possible.  That was Logan’s voice, and the first she recognized as well, but it was not Vendetta’s.

            “ _Oui_.”  Remy, then, was the first speaker.  “Dat’s all my reports have indicated so far.  What ‘bout you, _chere_?”

            “Tha’s all I’ve heard, too,” Vendetta replied.  Her voice was tight.  Erika could imagine her standing there, arms folded across herself, or hands in tight fists, a scowl half covered by her hair.  Whatever the conversation was about, Vendetta didn’t like it.

            Intrigued, Erika crept forward, moving carefully across the floor to the stairs.  She was careful of where she put her feet, taking care to avoid squeaking planks.  She knew that, if they heard her, the conversation would stop.  And she wanted to know what was happening.

            She climbed the stairs as quickly as she could, crouching as she drew closer to the top.  When she could just peer up into the upper room, she stopped and sat down on her step.  Vendetta, Logan, and Remy stood around the large table that always seemed to dominate the room.  Erika couldn’t make out what was on the table, but she recognized the first words she had heard.  They were names of some of the northern towns of Genosha, ruled by the Drake fiefdom.  That part of Genosha was far enough north to be bitterly cold come winter, and snow was prominent.  The mountains died into hills in the eastern part of the fiefdom, providing on of the few open parts of the border with any of the opposing kingdoms.

            “The common folk are agitated,” Remy continued.  His southern accent was all but gone.  Remy LeBeau was all business today.  “And for good reason.  Note that these towns are all in the north.”

            “By Alyria,” Logan growled.  “Please tell me anything but what I think you’re about to say.”

            “I’m afraid I can’t.  My source reported that Alyrian riders have been coming close to the border.  Lord Drake’s men have been keeping a vigilant watch, but it’s only a matter of time before there’s a strike.”

            Erika gasped sharply – immediately covering her mouth and cowering lower on the stairs.  She could feel the sharp rise in surprise among the three, mixed with something dark and hostile.  She cringed, crawling backwards down the stairs, suddenly desperate to get away-

            “Erika, wait-!”

            Logan’s voice wouldn’t stop her from fleeing, though.  Erika scrambled down a few more steps before she could stand straight and _run_ down them.  She wanted, _needed_ , to get away.  _Alyrian riders!  How could it come to this?!_

            Her feet slammed into the floor at the bottom of the stairs.  She lunged forward, already reaching for the door-

            Something solid struck her ribs.  Erika cried out, momentum lost; her body staggered back before collapsing into a trembling heap.  A sob wrenched out of her, hands flinging over her face.  Footsteps thundered down the stairs, but through her fingers, she watched Vendetta floating down before her.  Normally she would have admired such a display of prowess, but today she could only focus on the storm in her breast.

            “For the love of God,” Logan snapped, “did you have to stop her like that?”

            “It was quicker than coming down and catching her,” Vendetta replied at her side.  “She’ll be bruised, but it’s no’ the pain making her cry.  She’s upset for othah reasons.”

            There was a quiet after Vendetta’s comment, and Erika tried to hold in her loud, trembling breaths.  But the tears were there.  She didn’t know how to stop them.  It was like she was nine years old again, the knights riding off to battle, the fathers in the tavern drinking themselves to oblivion, the quiet of Einsemar as everyone feared and grieved.  King Shaw sat on the throne again, observing his war, riding through the city streets and assuring weeping mothers they would see their sons again.  It was war, and it was terror.

            A sob cracked out of her again.  Erika drew her knees up, dropping her face into the softness of her skirt.  It was a struggle to remind herself that she was eighteen, a woman now instead of a girl.

            Logan made a low growling sound.  Erika, wide open in her terror, could feel his anger, but she knew it was not aimed at her.  It only sharpened her tears, dampening the fabric further.

            “Kings and their fool wars,” Logan snarled.  “Can you calm her down?”

            “I think so,” Vendetta replied.  She had crouched down beside her, and now her hand touched on Erika’s arm.  “Come on, luv.  You need to get up.  We’ve got some things to talk about it would seem.”

            It took a little coercion, but Erika finally stood and shuffled back up the stairs.  She kept her head down, as much to try and hide from the shame of eavesdropping as hiding her red, tear-streaked face.

            Vendetta waved her hand.  Her telekinesis dragged over the chairs that had been shoved away from the table.  Erika rubbed ruefully at her ribs; the invisible barrier she had run into was one of Vendetta’s favorite tricks, but running into one was bound to cause bruising.  Erika sank into the nearest chair, folding her hands in her lap.  She kept her head bowed, looking at the large map that was spread out on the table.  It was a map of Genosha, the neighboring kingdoms marked on their borders.  The northern part of Genosha was to her right; a few markers were scattered through that fiefdom.

            Logan, Remy, and Vendetta sat across from her.  She could just see their shirts from her lowered perspective.  The differing fabrics were interesting.  Vendetta was dressed in a similar fashion to Erika, a light tunic underneath a plain leather underbust.  Logan’s shirt was simple wool, a green that had faded in washing.  But Remy wore something more fine.  Erika was unfamiliar with the material, but she recognized it as something common among members of higher classes.  The southerner’s purple-lined cloak was not on him, but Erika had no doubt it was somewhere in the room.

            “You probably think poorly of us right now,” Remy spoke up.

            Erika barked out a strangled laugh.  “Poorly of you?  How?  I understood nothing of what you spoke, besides the riders.  We’ll go to war again.”

            “Not if his majesty keeps in check,” Vendetta growled out.  “But it’s doubtful he’ll manage.  He’s never been good at holding his tempah.”

            Erika thought back to his outburst at Ameline.  The Iron King, waving his powers about, waving his anger about.  She shivered in her seat.

            “Dere’s other problems den Alyria,” Remy said.  Erika glanced up enough to see him scrubbing at his face.  His jaw was shadowed in reddish scruff, drawing the copper from his hair.  Dark shadows hung heavy below his strange eyes.  “I haven’t been very forthcomin’ on my business here in Genosha, other den wit’ Logan, and recently wit’ _Mademoiselle_ Vendetta.  And now it’s your right to know, Erika.”  Remy smiled, the twist of his mouth tight and bitter.  “Associatin’ wit’ me ain’t de safest choice, but it ain’t dangerous either.”

            Erika had lifted her head.  Her composure was mostly back, her empathy under wraps again.  Her face was still flushed, and her cheeks felt tacky from dried tears, but she was intrigued by Remy’s words.

            The southerner sighed, hands folded on the table.  When he spoke, his accent had faded away again.  “I was hired some time ago by the young Lord Xavier.  He was concerned about a report from the Drake fiefdom – townsfolk growing restless, talk about deserving a better king.  Young Charles wanted someone who could serve with discretion and be able to act if needed.  He’s smart to pick a Thief.

            “I have no shame in admitting my reputation precedes me in my line of work.  I was a bit surprised by the job description; spying is in our repertoire, but it isn’t usually the main purpose of a job.  But Xavier wished me to spy on the land, so to speak.  I’m to keep an ear to the ground and gather the whispers of the townsfolk.

            “Genosha is too large for one man to handle, so I work with a small team of other Thieves.  Since coming to Einsemar, I’ve been working with Logan to keep an eye on the capitol directly; Vendetta has . . . inserted herself in our group, if you will, for reasons that are her own to share or keep in her sleeve.  We’ve been meeting once a week to go over my agents’ reports and what we’ve managed to gather here.  My northern report today was troubling.  As you heard, there’s Alyrian riders stirring up trouble along the border.  But there’s also something with the people.”

            “An uprising,” Erika replied.  She shrugged a little at Remy’s startled look.  “It happens all the time, and quire frankly, it’s incredibly overdue.  The guards will whisk them away in the night, and that will be the end of it.  I’d be far more worried about Alyrian riders.”

            “I would be, except the guards haven’t managed to end it.  One person goes missing; three rise in their place.  It’s spreading like a fire.  There’s unconfirmed reports of it starting in new towns, spreading south, west, east.  It’s growing.”

            “It still won’t reach Genosha.  And if it does, it will end here.  The king won’t stand for it.”

            “Only time will tell,” Remy drawled, his accent rising again.  “Hopefully Xavier can find a way ta stop it.  We all gathered ya don’t like bloodshed.”

            Erika blushed in shame at her hysteria.  “The war was very frightening.  I was only a child.”

            “No one’s blamin’ ya for it.  Bloodshed’s an awful thing, _chere_.  It’s not something you should ever forget.”

            “Tha’s all well and good,” Vendetta cut in.  “But Erika knows enough.  You should go home.”

            Erika opened her mouth, but Logan spoke first.

            “What about in the palace?” the woodsman threw out.  “You’ve got agents all over the kingdom, and the three of us here in the city.  But you have no eyes or ears in the palace, and everyone knows that kings and queens are killed by servants if not on a battlefield.  Erika can walk in and out as she pleases, keep an eye on everyone there.”

            “Oh, no,” Vendetta replied, clearly adamant on the issue.  “Knowing wot you’re up to won’ kill her, but if she sticks her nose in the wrong place for you, it will.”

            Remy held his hands up, waving them slightly.  “Ya both are right.”  He met Erika’s eyes, shaking his head.  “Dis can be dangerous.  Ya can get hurt.  Some of your neighbors may end up disagreein’ wit’ you, mark you on de king’s side if deir rebellion makes it dis far.  I won’ force you to do anythin’ for me, for us.  We’re spies now, but you don’t have to be.”

            Erika flicked her gaze across all three of them.  Vendetta was scowling, but her visible eye was bright with worry.  Logan was simply watching her, unreadable, but interested; there was the heat she had felt every time around him just beneath the surface, making her want to shiver.  Remy was calm, tired, troubled.  Erika felt that he already knew her answer.

            “I want to help,” she said softly.  “My duty is to my king and my country.”

            “Fuck your duty,” Vendetta snapped.  She rose to her feet, her chair toppling backwards.  “And fuck the king!  Let the people take him!  He deserves it!”

            Erika grimaced slightly, bowing her head.  “Perhaps he does.  But the people do not deserve the violence and death an uprising will bring.  If I can help stop it, I want to.  I don’t . . . I don’t want more bloodshed in my lifetime.”

            “Tha’s all very honorable of you,” the redhead snarled.  “But it’s unrealistic.  As long as someone like the Iron King rules, violence will be the only option.”

            “Then why are you here even?”  Erika shook her head, waving a hand at the map.  “Why try to help save his rule if you don’t like him?”

            Vendetta’s hands clenched into fists.  In the shoddy cabinets, wooden dishes and utensils clattered.  A spark started in the wood piled in the fireplace.  “I don’t have ta explain my choices to you!” she hissed through gritted teeth.  “I have my reasons – tha’s all you need to know.”

            Remy laid a hand on her arm.  Vendetta flinched under the touch, then eased.  Her chair stood back up and she collapsed in it again.  Her hair flopped forward, shading her face more than usual.

            “Are you sure about this?” Logan asked.  Erika met his gaze, which had gone dark and solemn.  One dark brow was arched up sharply.  “There are risks.  You could offend nobility, cross the guards, your neighbors may turn on you if things escalate too far.  Other things.  Worse things.”

            Erika shrugged a bit.  “They’ll turn on me anyway.  I work for the king now.  And you’re right, I have an advantage, I can offer another perspective.  I want to help.  I’m sure.”

            “You can stop whenever ya want,” Remy offered.  “If ya ever feel you’re in danger, stop.  I’m not gonna get an innocent girl hurt over dis job if I can help it.”

            “I will,” Erika replied.  “I promise I’ll keep myself safe.”

            “All right, den.  As long as you wanna help, ya can.  Just listen, observe, the lords and ladies and servants alike.  Trust no one, save for Charles.”

            Erika nodded, but all she could possibly think was that it was the beginning of the end.


	22. A Lord and A Spy

            Erika felt a strange sort of guilt as she greeted and passed the guards at the portcullis.  Of course she couldn’t be wrong to be helping Remy; he was being paid by the young Lord Xavier to protect the king!  If anything, she was doing a service!  But her mind kept coming back to the way the Iron King had attacked Ameline.  Her sobs as she was wrenched forward by her necklace.  Erika found her hand wrapping around her throat.  She was suddenly glad for her lack of jewelry.  The king could not attack her in that way if she did something wrong.  But he would find other ways if he had to.  Erika hoped, desperately, that he would not feel a need to.

            Erika drifted through the palace halls, listless as she had been since yesterday’s revelations.  Her thoughts oscillated between Remy, Logan, and Bronwyn trying to protect the king, and the news of danger on the Alyrian border.  Would the worries of an uprising come to be?  Would Alyria strike out at Genosha again?  Who would die; who would live?  What was her role in all this chaos?

            Her mindless steps had taken her to the dining hall.  Far from surprising with how much time she had spent there in the week.  Erika wandered over to the raised platform at the end of the room.  She collapsed onto the edge, elbows propped on her knees, head in her palms.  Her mind would not stop spinning.  She wanted to tear her head apart and let the thoughts spill out.  Perhaps then they would stop tormenting her.

            “I doubt they would, but the thought is somewhat cathartic.”

            Erika startled at Xavier’s voice.  She staggered to her feet to drop into an immediate curtsy.  “Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t hear you come in-”

            “Oh no, please,” the young lord said quickly.  “Do sit back down.  I suppose I should apologize for prying.  Sometimes when I don’t focus on it, it slips out of my control and I can’t help but overhear things.”

            For a moment Erika wondered if she had spoken her wish aloud.  Then she remembered what Remy had said about the king’s primary advisor; Remy had claimed that Xavier could read minds, that it was his power as a Gifted.  The idea struck her as odd yet terrifying.  Sitting again, she folded her hands in her lap.

            “I understand, my lord.”  It was all she would dare to say on the matter.  She understood all too well.  Even after eight years of dealing with her own abilities to feel emotions and influence them, Erika had her slips of control.  Whether the young lord knew of her own abilities or not, she could not be certain.

            Xavier sat down next to her, though there was plenty of room between them to remain polite.  “I understand that Gambit has informed you of his business here, and that you know my role in it.”

            “Yes, my lord.”

            “He said you would help?”

            Erika sighed, glancing hurriedly around the room, stretching out her power as well.  Neither sense showed anyone nearby except the two of them.  “He has everything outside of the palace in observation, but he has no way of watching the court.  He asked if I would.”

            “And you said yes?”

            “It’s my duty to serve my king however I can.”

            Xavier shook his head; a few locks of dark hair tumbled onto his brow.  He seemed to be marveling at her choice.  “There are plenty in this kingdom who would have laughed in his face.  His majesty’s subjects don’t always think highly of him.”

            Erika wanted to point out that the king had his cruelties, that the people did not appreciate their friends and family vanishing.  But she could not.  Slander could be said in the city if one dared, and certainly in the countryside, but to speak such in the palace was a death sentence.

            “I appreciate your help though,” Xavier continued.  “Erik is a dear friend of mine.  To see him overthrown, or worse . . . I couldn’t bear it.”

            “You two are quite close,” Erika said, her voice hesitant.  “Is it because you’re his advisor?”

            “We’ve been friends since we were children,” Xavier replied.  He sounded cheerful; clearly the memories were fond.  “Our families have been close, historically, and we were no different.  After the tragedy, he came to live with us.  We grew up together.  I know Erik better than anyone.”

            “You mentioned it before.  A massacre you said, on my first day?”

            “Yes.  It was most unfortunate.  King Shaw felt that the Lehnsherrs were opposing his rule at every turn – which they were, to a degree.  He sent an assassin in the night to kill all of them; the old lord and lady, Erik’s parents, himself . . .  His most loyal guard whisked him off and rode through the whole night to save him.  He was brought to my manor, and of course my parents took him in, gave him asylum.  He was only twelve at the time, but he was a man full grown from that night on.”

            Erika blinked a few times to banish her tears.  She loved her parents more than anything; to imagine a life without them was simply painful.  Had the king loved his parents?  He must have if he was so angry at their death.

            “Forgive me,” Xavier said softly.  “I did not intend to upset you.”

            She wiped at her eyes, shaking her head.  “It’s all right.  It’s just so sad.  But he had you.  That must be better than nothing.”

            “I’d hoped it would be.  But there was such rage in him, such pain.  Nothing we did eased it.  Even after he took his revenge it remains, locked up inside him.  It’s brought him nothing but trouble.”  Xavier sighed, shaking his head again.  “But enough of this sorrow.  Gambit wants you to help – by spying on the court?”

            Erika blushed sharply at the choice in words, even though she knew no other way to describe it.  “I suppose so.  He just wants to be sure that no servants or lords are participating in whatever this rebellion is.”

            “A wise decision.  It’s often those closest to us who betray us.  I can try to help you, let you know what I know, who I think you might need to worry about.”

            “I would appreciate it, my lord.”

            Xavier grew pensive for a moment.  When he frowned, he looked older, though Erika knew he could hardly be more than ten years her senior, likely even less.  And the king was not much older than him, surely.  It seemed so strange to her, that people of such power were barely older than her.

            “There are few members of the Iron Court you can’t trust – or so I would hope,” Xavier finally said.  His bright blue eyes had gone dark with worry.  “The lords and ladies were all chosen for their loyalty, and the iron guard has never failed our king yet.  But it wouldn’t be the first time a king’s personal guard turned on him.  I believe we could include the captain, Creed; he’s the most loyal guard I’ve ever seen.”

            Erika pressed the tips of her fingers to her throat.  She couldn’t imagine speaking to Creed again, not after what he did to Vendetta, let alone what he did to _her_.  “I don’t . . . particularly feel comfortable approaching him, my lord.”

            “Yes.  He is . . . aggressive at times.  I can speak to him for you, at first at least.  He may want to see you himself though.”

            “If he does, I shall agree to it.  I would prefer not to be alone in that situation, though.”

            “Of course, I can surely arrange my schedule to accompany you.  His majesty may wish to hear of this as well, in which case we can all hold a meeting, the four of us.  We likely should, at some time, just to be safe.  But I’m rambling, thinking out loud.”  Xavier smiled, shaking his head.  “I don’t know of anyone in particular that we would not be able to trust in the court.  I would worry more about the servants.  Their loyalty is the least of any.”

            Erika nodded in understanding.  Servants were not paid well.  Their service was demanded; failure to serve when needed could lead to being locked in the stocks, or worse for repeated offenses.  There was no love lost between them and their ruler.  If offered a healthy sum of gold, a servant would be likely to turn on their sovereign.

            “Are you genuinely worried something will happen?” she asked.  She did not shy from looking Lord Xavier in the eye when she asked.  She wanted the truth.  If he lied, she would know; lies left an oil-slick feeling around a person.

            Xavier’s eyes were a blue dark like the twilight sky.  “I do worry,” he replied, his voice dropping to something close to a whisper.  “I worry for my friend, that he digs his own grave.  I worry that his people will turn on him.  And what a disaster it will be.  He has tried so hard to bring this land safety.  But I fear the price may be too steep.”


End file.
